


I Would Not Wish Any Companion In This World But Eds

by cortexikid



Series: We Can’t All Be Shakespeare [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Stan and Adrian Mellon have been resurrected because fuck Stephen King, First Kiss, Fix-It, Flashback to a non-explicit sex act when Richie was 15, Flashback to underage drinking, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie is being interviewed by a hot reporter, because Eddie Kaspbrak is right there next to him, but all he can focus on is Eddie’s eyes burning a hole into him, like who was his first crush and first love, part of a series but can be read alone, revelations are had, some of the questions get difficult to answer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/pseuds/cortexikid
Summary: “Have you ever been in love?”Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.Richie’s heart really can’t take much more of this line of questioning. Physically or emotionally.His eyes flicker, almost against his will, down towards Eddie as he forces out one syllable:“Nope.”It’s by far the biggest lie Richie Tozier has ever told.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: We Can’t All Be Shakespeare [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623406
Comments: 36
Kudos: 271





	I Would Not Wish Any Companion In This World But Eds

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So...there’s a lot going on in the world right now. Consider this 20,000+ word exploration of Richie’s giant heart-boner for Eddie my offering in these trying times. Stay safe everybody! <3
> 
> This is technically part of a series, but can be read alone and/or out of order :)
> 
> WARNING! Some period-typical homophobia, slurs etc. ahead, as well as some internalised homophobia from Richie as he thinks back to his childhood and time closeted. There is also a scene containing an underage sex act, but it is not explicit.

**_“This above all, to thine own self be true."_ **

**_~Hamlet, Act I, Scene III_ **

**_~*~_ **

“You didn’t use the moose I gave you, did you?” 

Richie Tozier throws Sandra, his hairstylist, a sheepish look in the mirror as he hops up and down on one foot, putting on his Converse.

“In my defense, when you were talkin’ about moose, I sorta thought you meant the chocolate kind.” 

Her stare is so deadpan, she’s a skillet buried six-feet-under. 

"Please tell me you didn't eat it."

Richie slaps a hand over his chest, scandalised. 

"Sandy! How could you even suggest I do something as stupid as—no, wait, I hear it now. That's fair. That's very on-brand for me," he concedes with a nod, "but, no. I promise I didn't eat it." 

A perfectly-shaped eyebrow raises. 

“That ‘moose’ is to tame that wild bird’s nest you call hair, Tozier,” she sighs, waving a hand around his head, looking as if she is itching to force him down into the makeup chair. “How am I supposed to—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” a voice calls with an accompanying rap to the ajar door.

“Stan The Man!” Richie exclaims as he catches his friend’s eye over Sandra’s shoulder, “C’mon in.” 

Stanley throws an apologetic smile to the stylist as he shuffles into the room. 

“Where the fuck did you get that lanyard?” 

Richie’s eyes glue to the piece of plastic hanging around his friend’s neck, glinting in the low light.

“Oh, this?” Stan shrugs, examining the backstage pass as if noticing it for the first time, “I like to come prepared, Rich. You know that.”

“That’s...not an answer, Stanley.” 

Stan merely smirks at him.

“So, you ready for the interview?” 

Richie winces, nose scrunching up as he leans back against the vanity table, the closest he gets to sitting down most days. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Stan remarks, coming to stand behind him, arms folding across his chest as he watches Sandra struggle to make Richie presentable. 

“I don’t know, man,” Richie shrugs, causing Sandra to tap him warningly on the shoulder with the handle of a comb, “It’s just...I—this is my first time speaking about...everything publicly, since I...”

“Came out completely unscripted on stage?” 

“Yeah.” 

Stan nods, eyes trailing to the floor.

“You uh, you worried about what he’s gonna ask you? About...growing up?” 

The weight of Derry and everything that goes with it, hangs between the two friends. 

Richie gives a side-glance at the stylist, who is 100% not listening to them in the slightest, her brow furrowed in concentration as she picks up and puts down different hair-styling instruments that vary in levels of alarming.

“I mean, yeah, dude. I—I spent so long just...not acknowledging anything, you know? I grew up having to hide that part of myself, then having to pretend in a whole other way as an adult, all part of my ‘public persona’...so now, talking about the truth openly on a public platform beyond me tweeting ‘lol yes homo’, scares the shit outta me.” 

Stan gives another nod, more firm this time.

“Then there’s the other thing.” 

Richie's eyes shoot up to meet his friend's, brow furrowed.

"Other thing?" 

Stanley blinks, his gaze shifting to the stylist who has now crossed the room and is busy rifling through her bag for, if Richie were a betting man, probably more torture devices to unleash on his receding hairline. 

He watches as Stan leans over, closer to him, dropping his voice to almost a whisper. 

"The Eddie Thing.™" 

Richie has no idea how Stan manages to verbally convey capital letters and a trademark sign, but he does. 

Heat colours his cheeks as he drags a palm down his face, mumbling. 

"Don't, man. We're doin' fine, okay? We're neighbours, we hang out all the time, reminisce, engage in some good ol' fashioned nostalgia, all that shit. After everything he’s been through, there’s...there's no point jeopardising what we already have for what’s essentially the fuckin’ pipe dream of a lovesick, naive thirteen year old, okay? So just...drop it. Please." 

Stan levels him with a stare that would put Sandra to shame. 

His voice lowers so much that Richie has to lean forward until he’s practically doubled-over to hear him. 

"Take it from someone who's already died, Rich. Life is too short to hold back. You lost him before you got a chance to tell him once. You’ve got a second chance now, not many people get tha—" 

"Uh, excuse me, Mr Tozier?" 

The two friends glance towards the ajar dressing room door where a short, brunet man is throwing them an apologetic smile. 

Richie blinks at Stan before he leaps across the room, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and holding out his hand. He vaguely registers Stan darting around them and slipping out the door, muttering a soft, "I'll leave you guys to it." 

He focuses instead on the newcomer, forcing a (hopefully) cordial smile on his face as they shake hands. 

"You must be Jake. Nice to meet you, man. Come on in." 

“Nice to meet you too. Thanks for agreeing to the interview.”

Once the pleasantries are out of the way, Jake moves to the seat opposite Richie, who lets out a relieved sigh at finally being able to sit down for a bit. He watches with piqued interest as the journalist takes out a small dictaphone and sets it on the table. 

“Old school,” he remarks nodding to the dictaphone with a wry smile. 

“Can’t trust smartphones. They can be pretty dumb,” Jake shrugs with a quiet laugh. 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere,” Richie smiles as he shifts in his chair, Sandra taking her opportunity to try and do something, anything, to his hair. 

“I’ll leave it to the professionals,” the journalist smirks, shuffling his notes.

“So, it’s gonna be about a dozen questions in total. Some softball, some not. Won’t take up more than a half-hour. That okay?” 

Richie gives a small nod, fingers digging into the armrests of the chair as he tries to force his leg not to bounce frenetically. He’s done tonnes of interviews before, a lot televised, this shouldn’t be as much of a big deal.

But it is.

“You good to begin?" 

He gives another, smaller nod. 

Jake heaves a deep breath, pressing the button on the little recording device.

It’s as if a tarp of professionalism has been draped over him all of a sudden as he transforms, sitting straighter, his voice adopting a more polished tone: 

“Mr Tozier, thanks so much for sitting down with me today.”

Sandra seemingly gives up the ghost at this point, rolling her eyes and striding out of the room without a backwards glance, muttering something about ‘sulfates’ under her breath. Richie makes a mental note to give her another raise and stock the mini fridge with those little iced coffees she likes. The woman is a saint. 

Turning back to the interviewer, he grins, “No problem, man. First time I’ve sat down all day. Pretty sure everyone thinks I have haemorrhoids.”

A familiar thrill flows up his spine at the little laugh it elicits from Jake. He’s a simple man, really. Dumb joke + laugh from hot stranger = happy Richie.

“Well, if you’d like to put that rumour to rest...” Jake continues to chuckle, trailing off to slide his dictaphone across the small coffee table.

“Just a few questions and I’ll be out of your–”

“What the fuck, Richard?! Did you forget to tell that asshole in security about me again?”

Richie startles, his stomach swooping as the familiar voice reaches his ears. His eyes shoot over to the door, a small smile spreading across his face as he’s met with an even more familiar sight. 

A pissed off Eddie Kaspbrak, complete with karate chop hands and roadrunner-speed rant. 

“Fucking Bill and Bev breeze through no problem, famous faces and shit. Ben waltzes in being the fucking model he is. Stan already has a pass somehow, because of course he fucking does, and Mike is currently talking light fixtures with his new buddy, the stage guy. So, that just leaves me to nearly have a throw down with that beefy, walking god-complex at the front gate. What the shit, dude?! Did you not put me on the fucking list?”

Richie blinks, marvelling not for the first time, at Eds’ colourful way of expressing himself. He can feel his smile, wide and fond, at the sight of his friend, powerless to stop it. It’s the Eddie Kaspbrak effect and he’s been afflicted with it since around 1985. 

“Must have slipped my mind, Eduardo, my bad. I’m uh…” he shoots a glance at Jake, suddenly very aware of his presence, it like an itch under his skin, “I’m kinda in the middle of something though, so–”

Five faces appearing over Eddie’s shoulder abruptly cut him off. It’s the rest of the Losers. Each one looking like varying levels of supermodel, ranging from issues of something like _Accounting Today Magazine_ to _Vogue_ and everything in between. Unfairly sexy bastards. 

“Why are we hangin’ in the hallway?” Mr GQ himself, Ben Hanscom, asks with his usual polite smile that if Richie’s heart had not been so utterly taken by another back during the Reagan administration, it would have set his pulse racing. 

“Because Eds has zero manners,” Richie retorts, eyes gluing to the man in question as they all file into the room like a herd of zebras or something. 

_Dazzle. A herd of zebras is called a ‘dazzle’,_ his brain reminds him helpfully, full of useless information as always. 

He has to stop staying up till 4am watching Animal Planet.

Observing the six grown-ass-adults move into the dressing room like a well-oiled machine, making themselves at home, fitting into the space like part of the furniture, like they were always meant to be there, causes a surge of warmth to spread throughout his entire body.

_Yeah, dazzle. That tracks._

He forces his eyes away from the magnetic pull that is Eddie Kaspbrak in a distractingly-tight, black shirt and begins his absolute favourite thing in the world - introducing his friends like they are nominees for some prestigious award and he is the overeager presenter tasked to not fuck up their names.

And with names like ‘Kaspbrak’, ‘Hanscom’ and ‘Denbrough’, Richie is just thankful that he’s known these idiots his whole life. ‘Cause someone like John Travolta didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Which, considering his own last name, seems sorta ironic.

_Am I using irony right?_

_Not important right now, Alanis._

He gently shakes his head, making himself focus on the task at hand. These things were important.

“Jake Daniels from Here 'n' Queer Magazine,” he leans forward in his chair, “let me make introductions ‘cause I’ll probably be bringing these assholes up in conversation soon anyway.”

The journalist seems intrigued and Richie can’t blame him for it, really. He has been speaking at length about The Losers Club in his new set, all their antics (sans clown-shenanigans, obviously) from the ‘80s, providing a wealth of funny anecdotes that he could now thankfully remember and took great pleasure in relaying to an audience. 

“This is Bill Denbrough, cute as a button and horror-writer extraordinaire,” he begins with a smirk, playfully pointing at him, “That tall drink of water beside him is Mike Hanlon, a sexy librarian turned globetrotter,” he continues with a wink at Mike’s bemusement.

“And beside him, is the gorgeous and talented fashion designer, Beverly Marsh. I know you know her, if your jacket is anything to go by.” 

He had noticed that immediately, of course. Richie Tozier may not be a fashion icon himself, but he knew his best friend’s signature style when he saw it. After all, he had spent the last ten months up close and personal with it as she patiently gave his professional wardrobe a well-needed makeover. Truthfully, he had enjoyed it (not that he’d ever admit it), Bev knowing him well enough to let him keep his own tastes and just adding a little more flare here and there. 

“The absolute smoke-show next to her is not actually an Abercrombie and Fitch model, don’t be fooled,” Richie leans further forward, stage-whispering conspiratorially, “He’s an _architect_ of all things. Ben Hanscom of Hanscom & Associates. Can you believe it? Waste of a good face if you ask me.” 

His eyes trail over to Stanley, grin widening. “And next to him, glaring at me like he wants me to be sucked into another dimension where I never began this speech, is our resident DILF, Stanley Uris, a hotshot lawyer that definitely regrets leaving his pregnant wife to come see his annoying, childhood friend embarrass himself on stage.” 

_And then there’s Edward Kaspbrak. Hot as fuck and the love of my goddamn life. He’s a risk analyst and still somehow the bravest motherfucker I’ve ever known. I adore every inch of the tiny, angry, bush baby._

That, he leaves unsaid, of course. Eddie already sorta introduced himself, anyway. 

“So, they’re the O.G. Losers Club,” Richie concludes with a wave of his hand, “you want to continue with–"

“Hold up dickwad, what about me? Don’t _I_ get a fancy introduction?”

Richie should have seen it coming, really. Eddie always did hate feeling left out of things. That had not changed with time. 

He blinks, forcing his gaze to meet the gleaming, dark eyes that were a starring feature in most of his dreams from the time he was nine - and even in the twenty-plus-years interim of amnesia when he couldn't remember who they belonged to.

His stomach, predictably, flips. 

_God, you’re pathetic, Trashmouth._

“Uh, thought you kinda made your own introduction there, Eds, but sure,” he shrugs with fake nonchalance, turning back to Jake, “And this little ray of sunshine is Eddie Spaghetti–”

“Not my name–”

“Who is a boredom adviser–”

“Risk analyst–”

“And has never learned how to knock.” 

This part has always been easy. Bantering, bickering, arguing, whatever you wanted to call the dynamic that he and Eddie had pretty much perfected over the years. It was always the easy part of their relationship. The back and forth, give and take, push and pull, this they knew like the back of their hands. That had not changed with time, either. In fact, if Stan were to be believed, it had only gotten worse. 

Richie loves it. 

Just like everything else to do with Eddie. 

“Are they always like this?” He hears the journalist ask the rest of the Losers. 

“Since 1984,” they all reply in unison, just like they always have when posed that very question by many people over the years.

And that, _that_ is the hard part. Being _known_. 

Because they do _know_. They know more than Richie has ever felt comfortable with. Fuck, how the hell could he deny it after...after what they had seen? How he...fell the fuck apart after Eddie...and then in the quarry...there was no denying it after that. No hiding. No evading. 

No lying. 

Still, that didn’t mean he had to tell the truth. The Losers were one thing, but to just...speak it out there for the whole world (and most importantly, Eddie) to hear and see and judge? Not so much.

Besides, he had already done that to an extent. Admitted to a live audience, his oldest, deepest secret. 

_I know your secret, your dirty, little—_

He’d come out. And that...that was enough. 

The _Eddie Thing™_ as Stan had so helpfully dubbed it, or his _second oldest secret_ as Richie unhelpfully dubbed it, that could stay buried. Along with the rotting corpse of Fucko the Clown and all the rest of Derry’s bullshit. 

Because they had gotten Eddie back. He and Stan are alive. That’s the main thing. The most important thing. And nothing, especially not Richie’s selfish feelings, would come in the way of Eddie living his very best life, for the first time ever. 

“You want us to head out, Rich? Give you some privacy?”

Kind, considerate Mike breaks him from his reverie (*cough* downward spiral *cough*), forcing him back into the room where he realises his friends have begun making themselves comfortable as if staying for the foreseeable future. 

He can feel Eddie’s eyes on him from where he sits in Sandra’s make-up chair/bane of Richie’s existence. 

He considers the question, but just barely. Honestly, there isn’t much (besides the obvious where Eddie's ears are concerned) that he feels the need to still hide, particularly from his oldest friends, anymore. And Richie highly doubts that the journalist will outright ask _‘So, tell me, Richie, just how long and deep and pathetic has your unrequited love for Eddie Kaspbrak been over the years?’_ So, he figures he’s safe enough. 

When he relays his willingness for the Losers to chill in the room with them however, he’s met with a look of skepticism from the reporter. 

“Some of these questions get a little personal, Mr Tozier. Are you sure you–"

“Dude, call me Richie, please. And these guys already know about all the rainbow skeletons in my closet,” Richie cuts across him, snatching up his cell phone from off the table and pocketing it. He’s fully prepared to ignore each and every one of the impending calls from his publicist urging him to do that dumb Pepsi commercial. Fuck that, he saw that shitshow with Kendall Jenner. No dice. 

“And even if they didn’t, they’d soon read all about them. So, go ahead, ask me anything. I’m an open book.”

Even as Richie says them, he feels like they may be famous last words. 

_Well, too late to go back now, Tozier. In for a Pennywise..._

He almost snorts at his own joke, but refrains. It probably wouldn’t be a good start to the interview. He can just read the tag line now: 

_‘Richie Tozier laughs at his own mental jokes. Pity audiences don’t do the same for his verbal ones…’_

Jake quirks an eyebrow at him as if he’s somehow a mind reader and honestly, if that’s the case, Richie is already fucked six ways from Sunday. 

_Just not in the way you want, huh Trashmouth?_

And nope. No. He won’t be thinking about sex during the interview either. How he’s not had any in over two years, ever since he remembered a certain wiry, loud brunet who ruined him for all other men forev—

“Alright, well, let’s start with the obvious, then. You just said you’re an open book. But, you weren’t always. By your own admission, you’ve been closeted for the greater part of forty years. So, my first question is - why come out now? And did it have anything to do with you wanting to perform your own material after years of using ghost writers?”

Richie’s jaw drops. 

_Yeah. Yep. This was a mistake._

His eyes wander over to Stan, to Bill, to Bev, carefully avoiding Eddie for reasons he really can’t fathom. 

“Whoa, you’re goin’ straight for the jugular, huh? Alright.” 

He tries his best to shove down his discomfort, folding an ankle across his knee, holding it in place with his hands as he considers his response.

“I uh...I guess I was just sick of hiding who I am. Tired of spouting sexist and homophobic jokes written by straight, white, twenty-five-year-old dickholes with a degree in Sex and Masculinity Studies or some shit,” he lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, “A...A good friend reminded me recently that I shouldn’t be afraid. That I should be who I wanna be. And be proud. So...that’s what I’m trying to do.”

He'll never, as long as he lives, forget that godforsaken letter. 

Richie loves him and all, but fuck Stanley Uris. 

Even now, over two years after the fact, he'll still get a flash of the memory of him standing in his hallway of his apartment, letter in hand, fat, hot tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks as he read the words:

_Be proud._

Proud of what, Stanley? 

His sham of a career? 

His crippling loneliness?

The fact that he’s a 40-year-old closet-case that never had any meaningful relationships bar the merry band of misfits he accumulated at thirteen years old and then forgot for thirty years? 

Or, his borderline alcoholism that tipped into more when he remembered and then lost both his oldest friend and the love of his life in the space of one terrible, horrible, no good, very bad weekend? 

He had sunk to his knees, then. Right down onto his hardwood floor, crumpled, tear-stained paper still in hand. 

_What do have I to be proud of, Stanley? I left Eds down there, in his own version of hell, in the dirt and grime, all alone in the dark…_

“And how has the response to your coming out live on stage been for you personally?”

Richie's eyes jump up as he snaps out of the memory. He sucks in his bottom lip, gnawing on it as he tries to gather his thoughts, focus more on the present than the past. He wracks his brain, wondering how to put it all into words. The myriad of mixed emotions he has felt since that fated night last year when he gave his agent (and a hefty chunk of downtown Los Angeles) a heart attack by admitting his Big Gay Secret™ in between a bit about how he can’t drive for shit, but was always good at math. 

_"So guess I'm like, only half of the gay stereotype?...Oh, uh, yeah. Fun facts ladies and gents - I'm gay! Surprise! Bet you didn't expect that, huh? Me neither. Man, my agent is gonna kill me."_

“Like, ninety percent awesome?" He shrugs, "Tons of support, retweets, likes, 1.3 million more followers. And that's just Twitter. Meeting fans in real life that admit to hating my old act, but my new one means the world to them has been...a dream come true."

And it has. 

That isn’t some cheesy line - these last few months, really have been like something out of the best kinda dream. 

Well, maybe not _the best_ kinda dream, because that tended to involve a naked Eddie Kaspbrak proclaiming his undying love for him before pounding him into a mattress, but still, it was up there.

All he had ever wanted to be since he was old enough to hold a hairbrush and pretend it was a microphone, was a standup comedian. He loved making people laugh, he loved the sound of it, the light behind people’s eyes as the punchline landed, the rush he would get at the thought that he caused that, _he_ made them feel like that, even if just for a moment. 

It was addictive.

Which, had been part of the problem, really.

And really helped add to the great-cocaine-binge of ‘05, which led to the greater-cocaine-overdose of ‘06 and Richie swearing off the stuff for good after his heart had to be restarted twice. 

He’s doing better with it all now, though. The Losers help. Having them around to beep him when things go too far, and you know, just having people around him that genuinely care about his well-being is surprisingly effective in helping to combat his innate desire for self-destruction. Who knew?

Speaking of his general well-being…

His eyes lower to the floor as he recalls some of the less-positive reactions he received after coming out.

“But there’s always that ten percent of shittiness, you know? The trolls, the homophobes burning their ‘Trashmouth’ T-shirts, that kinda thing. But the positivity makes up for it tenfold. And at the end of the day, I’ve learned to not let what strangers think of me matter too much,” he laughs, his usual mix of tickled and self-deprecating, “if thirteen-year-old me could see me now.”

He watches as the interviewer’s eyes light up, knowing instinctively what the next question is bound to be. 

“And what was thirteen-year-old you like?”

_Bingo._

Before he could even open his mouth however, Richie is railroaded by the flurry of responses from the Losers, mostly scoffs and groans, the loudest of which being Eddie’s. 

Looking to his friends, he takes in their expressions of amused annoyance, their default when it comes to him, really. But unsurprisingly, it’s Eddie that his eye gets caught on, that little quirk of his eyebrow that practically dares Richie to say: 

“Oh, shut up,” he punctuates with a wave of his middle finger, “you all loved thirteen-year-old Trashmouth. He was a riot. A legend in the making. A–”

“Annoying attention-seeker with a potty-mouth and an arsenal of bad impressions,” Eddie finishes with that smug smirk of his. 

The whole thing really shouldn’t make Richie’s stomach swoop like a schoolgirl getting assigned a seat next to her crush, but god help him, it does. 

Always has. 

He throws a hand over his chest and doubles over as if wounded by his friend’s words, playing the role he has expertly played since childhood, probably the best he has ever played in his entire life - the foil to everything and anything Eddie Kaspbrak has to say. 

“Edward! You wound me!” He crows, “You loved my impressions! Señor Caca, Irish Cop, the British guy, Penny–”

“So you were always the entertainer, then?” The reporter interjects, which is probably for the best, lest he suddenly be asked about who ‘Pennywise’ is. 

And no fucking way is he talking about that homophobic bitch in an LGBT magazine. And, you know, him being a demonic alien who murdered children for millennia probably isn’t what _Here ‘n’ Queer_ consider copacetic for their reader demographic. Then again, with all these monster-obsessed-weirdo-movies from dudes like Guillermo del Toro and Andy Muschietti, who the fuck knows anymore? 

What Richie _did_ know though, is that thanks to those guys, people now wanted to fuck fish and ghosts and shit, so. He would not be adding to it with clowns. ‘Nuff said. 

He drags his eyes away from Eddie, a Herculean effort, as always. 

“Yeah, I guess. Someone had to distract these disasters from awkward teenage angst, impromptu boners and childhood trauma.”

And that was another role he had happily played and continues to play to this day. Especially now, after everything that happened during Derry 2.0. The distraction, Trashmouth the Talker, the terrible prankster, the risqué joke-teller, the do-whatever-I-can-to-make-my-friends-happy-because-life-is-shit guy. 

It’s a role he’ll gladly play for the rest of his life. 

Because life _is_ still shit, sometimes. 

And even when it’s not, the Losers were always his favourite audience anyway.

“Did you get many impromptu boners?”

He should’ve seen that question coming, really. 

Richie huffs out a surprised chuckle, “Ha, I mean, didn’t we all pop a few?”

He pauses. 

“Well, except for Bev. Obviously."

Right on cue, Beverly lets out a loud snort from where she is watching them, eyes dancing from her perch on the couch. 

"You know nothing of my boners, Trashmouth," she quips, popping a grape into her mouth from the bowl she stole out of the mini fridge. 

Richie turns, tilting his head at her, "But I do know you've big dick energy, Marsh. As the kids say.”

The two friends shared a dumb grin before Richie faces the music, gearing himself up to finish answering the tongue-in-cheek question. 

"I guess I had to be even more careful with any misplaced... _feelings_. Small town USA. The ‘80s, you know…” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.

It goes without saying, that growing up gay in a town like Derry in a decade like the ‘80s sucked major donkey balls. In fact, growing up gay most places sucked, to be fair, still does for a lot of people, but for Richie…

_Richie Tozier sucks monster-cock_ written on bathroom stalls. 

_What are you looking at, faggot?_ spat in the hallway. 

_Aww, what’s wrong, fairy boy? Cat got your tongue?_ growled in his ear right before his head is shoved down a toilet. 

_What’s wrong, Rich? Don’t you wanna go to the dance with Tricia Metcalfe?_

_Hey Richie, we’re playing truth or dare. And you can’t keep picking dare this time._

_Wash your fucking hands, dickwad! My mom heard on the news last night that you can get AIDS from skin-to-skin contact._

_I know your secret. Your dirty, little secret._

For Richie, it was...

“So, no secret rendezvous for high school Richie?”

Richie’s eyebrows shoot up as he’s shaken from his reverie, his foot jiggling from where he still had a hold of his ankle.

“What, you wanna hear about how I blew a football star under the bleachers when I was fifteen, or something?”

And shit, he _did not_ mean to blurt that out. 

It had been the year his dad would make them move. He had gotten the opportunity to open a larger dental practice in the mid-west and jumped at it. Richie had been told last. And couldn’t bring himself to tell the rest of the Losers yet. They had already lost Bev and Bill and hardly got to see Mike anymore. If Richie left too…

It had also been the year that Stacey Winters had developed some sort of weird crush on Eddie and had taken a liking to loitering around his locker, their lunch table and the fucking boys’ toilets so she could ambush him and tell him to ask her to the dance. 

Eds had taken this about as well as you’d imagine. Adorably embarrassed, but mostly terrified that dear ol’ mom would find out and blow a gasket. 

Richie had taken it decidedly worse. 

His moods would turn sour as soon as he’d see the tips of Stacey’s mousy-brown bob coming towards them. Which, looking back, really hadn’t been fair. Stacey had been one of the alright ones. Or, as alright as anyone in Derry could be, anyway. 

Jealousy was a bitch. 

Turned out that _Richie Tozier sucks monster-cock_ adorning any available surface was one of the wonderful staples of Derry that followed him from middle school to high school and apparently, despite his best efforts, his _aggressively heterosexual behaviour_ in any public space, Richie still couldn’t shake the apparent legitimacy of that statement. 

Even though he had never once sucked a cock in his near-sixteen years of life. Monster or otherwise. 

_Until…_

The bleachers were a known hookup spot for all the horny delinquents of Derry High and, on the night that Richie stumbled out of Rosie DeMarco’s, blinking back tears as he tried to banish the image of Stacey Winters laying one on Eddie during an ill-fated game of spin the bottle, it was where Richie found himself wallowing. 

But he wasn’t alone. 

Josh McGregor, Derry High’s star fullback had apparently left the party early too, six-pack of that new shit, Schaefer, under his arm and walked right up to Richie before he had had a chance to bolt and shoved a can in his hand. 

Richie had been understandably suspicious of this, used to the only shoving from McGregor being his head down a toilet or into lockers, but had taken the beer anyway, because it had been that kinda night. It did nothing to erase the image of Eddie locking lips with the skinny brunette though, his eyes wide and staring right at Richie the whole time from across the room. 

“Is it true?” McGregor had asked out of the blue, sliding down onto the cold, wet ground beside Richie, draining his can, his eyes hooded. 

“You suck monster cock, Tozier?”

Richie could only bring himself to shake his head, his hands trembling as he clutched the beer can. This was stupid, he should have ran when he had the chance. Now he was gonna get his ass beat again for being a—

McGregor’s hand dropped to the fly of his jeans, fingers tracing it lightly.

“You want to?”

He remembered he had stopped breathing for a full ten seconds as the two teenagers stared at one another, then at McGregor’s hand, on the precipice of something. A trick, maybe. A deeply confusing, sorta uncomfortable, definitely risky, treat? Possibly. 

Thing was, after everything he had been through in the summer of ‘89, Richie had learned two things - one, some risks pay off, and two, some risks don’t. 

It was just a matter of figuring out which kinda one this was. 

As McGregor’s hand began to pull away, Richie's fingers shot out and grabbed his sleeve, thinking wildly, ‘ _fuck it, I’m leaving this shithole soon anyway, might as well get this outta the way while I have the chance.’_ He resolutely thought of everything but Eddie fucking Kaspbrak’s lips and where they were, because he may be a fag, he may be about to ‘debase himself by hooking up with his bully’ as he’d imagine Eddie would say, but he was not a fucking creep. He would not think lecherous, drunken thoughts about his best friend. Especially not while doing this. 

When it was over, McGregor merely stood up, grunted, and walked away as if nothing had happened. 

He never did touch Richie again, though. 

Not to trip him in hallways or to shove him into lockers, or to cradle the back of his head as he fucked into his mouth. 

So. That was...something. 

Back in the present, Richie is aware that the room is deadly silent, every pair of eyes glued to him. 

Including Eddie’s. 

His heart rate ratchets up. 

“Did you?” The interviewer asks, eyebrows high on his forehead. 

Richie looks helplessly to Bev, Stan, Bill, Ben and Mike individually, wishing and hoping and praying like good ol’ Dusty herself, that one of them would jump in and save him from having to answer. 

No such fucking luck, though. 

“Uh…” he mumbles, absolutely no idea how he is going to even begin to answer that. 

“Who was it?” Eddie asks out of all of them, his voice tinged with...something. 

Richie can’t look directly at him, instead focusing on a spot over his shoulder as his friend continues his inquiry.

"It wasn't... _you know who_ , was it, Richie? God, didn't he like dunk your head down–"

"No Eds, it wasn't Voldemort," Richie sighs, lying through his teeth, knowing that Eddie meant McGregor, cursing Eddie’s weird sixth sense when it comes to him. He looks back to Jake, "but in an effort to not kiss and tell, I'm gonna go with a 'no comment' and ask my mouthy friend here to shut the fuck up and mind his own business."

It goes without saying that it takes everything in him not to say, ‘blow and tell.’ But he refuses to be that much of an asshole. It _also_ goes without saying that Eddie had hit a nerve. And he knew it, if the scandalised expression that Richie could kind of see out of the corner of his eye is any indication. 

“Okay, something easier, then," the reporter breaks the tension, scouring over his notes, "what was your first gay bar experience like?”

That pulls another laugh from Richie, helping him relax a little as he remembers his panicked little baby gay self back in ‘97, tentively skulking into a fairly low-key establishment and promptly freaking the fuck out.

He couldn’t remember much about his childhood at that point, Derry and Fucko the Clown having seen to that, but the deep-seated fear that surrounded his…(then) ambiguous sexuality hadn’t been glossed over in the slightest. Yeah, it may have taken him another few years of foggy soul-searching to fully remember, “Oh yeah, I’m Dick and _like dick_ ,” but once he did, there was no going back. 

Until he decided he really wanted to give this stand-up comedian thing a go. Then, it was back in the closet he went. No more peeking out, no more telling anyone his real preferences and definitely, 100%, no more fawning over short, brunet dudes that made his heart ache for some reason.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t...check things out, all covert like, right? Who even knew if he was 100% homo, you know? He had zero experience in the whole thing, the weird, vague snippets of feelings he’d get sometimes and the opaque memories that often accompanied them - they didn’t mean anything, right?

Which was how he found his not-quite-21-year-old-self standing in the corner of a bar called Woody’s, which, from the outside, looked like it could have passed for any other dive that had the monopoly on college kids with their lenient carding policy, and on the inside was exactly that, but also with drag queens sometimes. Nothing too overt, you know, because it was 1997 (and RuPaul had only begun trying to revamp America’s social consciousness in a very nineties kinda way,) but just enough to get the word out to those looking for a safe place to drink and maybe make a connection.

Richie wasn’t sure what he was there for really. A lone, jittery, slightly-underaged kid, too afraid to attempt to order anything harder than a Coors as he looked around him like a wide-eyed Bambi learning to walk, but still not quite put-out enough to leave.

That was when Bud approached him.

And yeah, even after all these years, he still found that name hilarious.

With a smile, he begins to summarise that night, “Well, I was so far in the closet at the time my BFF was Aslan, so, kinda uneventful, to be honest. Like, at the first sign of interest, I was all 'exit, pursued by a bear then apologise and let the bear down gently, kinda deal.'"

  
"Poor bear." 

"Yeah, he was a nice dude. Hope he found someone."

A beat passed where the interviewer tilted his head at Richie, a pensive look in his gaze.

  
“You’re sweet.”

“Thanks.” 

Richie feels a soft smile break out on his own face as he watches something similar happen to Jake’s, his dark eyes lighting up, and it’s here that he is struck by three things - one, Jake is hot. Like, _really, really hot_. Two, he’s maybe flirting with him, kinda? And three…

Richie should feel flattered. He should be preening at the attention and the excitement of promise. But all he can actually focus on is the warmth spreading throughout his entire body at the fact that Eddie Kaspbrak is definitely, 100%, intently staring at him. 

And really, it puts anything that Jake could make him feel to shame because...well, _it’s Eddie._

And even though that stare is probably, maybe, definitely out of platonic interest, it’s still Eddie. 

_It’s always Eddie. Always has been, always will be._

_God, I’m pathetic._

"So, now that you're out," Jake continues, a noticeable blush tingeing his cheeks that has guilt swirling in Richie’s stomach, "Have your recent gay bar experiences gone better? Any more broken-hearted bears? Tearful twinks?" 

Yeah, gay bars haven’t really been Richie’s scene in...a while. A few years at least. Ever since he retired things like online hookups and sketchy one night stands. He had become too recognisable to risk it, just another reason why being closeted sucked. 

That, and he really missed Shirley Basic from Hot Rod’s and her rendition of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart.' Eat _your_ heart out, Bonnie Tyler. 

Richie snorts, shifting in his seat, considering how to word his response, landing on -

“Nah, I pretty much just stick with these Losers whenever they're in town. Most other days it’s just me, my pet turtle, Matty, and my Netflix subscription. Haven't really had time to date with, you know, everything."

And it’s the truth. It really is. Just...not the _whole truth_.

But it’s not like he can say, _“Well, you see, Jake. I’m ass over tea-kettle in love with my best friend. You know, that short, angry dude right over there? Eddie Kaspbrak? That’s him. Yeah, ever since I was twelve years old, my heart pretty much decided that he was ‘it’ for me. Boom. Love of my life. And while I kinda forgot for a while, my heart didn’t. So, now that we’re reunited and remember everything, the thought of dating or kissing or fuck, even being with anyone else in general, just really doesn’t do it for me. Instead, I drink in every moment I have with him, because he died once, ya see. It was a whole thing. Worst time of my life, I went through some shit. But now that I have him back, I’m too afraid to risk our friendship, our movie nights and the dinners he makes me while I pretend to help and the breakfasts where he forces me to drink gross smoothies, for something that won’t ever happen. I’m happy with our life. My life. I’d gladly never have sex or intimacy again once I can laugh at Eds snoring his brains out on my couch after falling asleep during Ghostbusters again. Because it’s Eddie or bust. Always has been. Always will be. Hey, are you sensing a theme here too?”_

“Well uh, our Here 'n' Queer readers will be pleased to hear that,” Jake throws him a small, possibly flirty smile that he really wishes he could reciprocate, but can’t.

Richie adjusts his glasses, his foot jiggling. It’s his annoying nervous tick that he could never quite grow out of no matter how hard he tried. He’s hyper-aware of the fact that all the Losers, (who are definitely doing a bad job at making it seem like they’re not eavesdropping,) know that too. 

“Heh, good to know, man. I can use all the help I can get.” 

And isn’t that quite a confession.

He feels a million lightyears away from his ‘my-girlfriend-caught-me-masturbating-to-her-friend’s-Facebook-page’ days. And couldn’t be happier. 

Well, maybe he _could_. But there's not much he can do about that. 

Jake leans toward him, eyes glinting, “Oh, I’m sure you don't need any help in that depart–"

A loud cough interrupts him. 

Both men whirl around to look at Eddie, who is staring unabashedly at Jake, an indecipherable expression marring his face. 

"Shouldn't you be asking about his Netflix deal?"

His tone is sharp, usually the type of sharp that he reserves for when Richie has really pissed him off. 

It immediately has his hackles up. 

_The fuck is Eds pissed about?_

Richie catches his eye, brow furrowed, "The man doesn't tell you how to predict how having fun will end up killing you, or whatever, Eddie. Let him do his job, man."

Eddie stares back at him and Richie feels that surge of electricity he always feels whenever they look at each other. It sparks around the room, flows between them like a current and usually sinks in through Richie’s pores like a comforting balm. 

But now, it puts him a little on edge. There’s something... _off_ about Eddie today. Has been ever since he walked through the door ranting about some rude security guard. 

"No, he's right. That was my next question anyway," Jake’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, "What was it like when you got the Netflix deal?"

Richie drags his eyes away from Eddie who busies himself with his phone, seemingly no longer paying attention to the interview. 

“I uh, fell outta my bed,” he laughs, remembering the tender lump he had on the back of his skull for days afterward that Eddie kept insisting he get checked out and when Richie refused, had taken it upon himself to force Richie to sit down on the toilet so Eddie could inspect it.

Richie could still feel the ghost of Eddie’s fingers raking through his hair hours later when he was trying to fall asleep. 

“Seriously. My agent called with the news and I just rolled right out like an unsupervised toddler. But it was amazing. I wanted to tell everyone - The Losers, my mom, the mailman, my weed dealer - but I was forced into streaming service secrecy for awhile. Which did not do my anxiety any favours. So I settled for telling Matty, he's great at keeping secrets once I ply him with lettuce. It's a pretty fair trade.”

He shrugs, his eyes wandering back over to Eddie, who is still buried in his phone, thumbs furiously tapping. 

“Then I uh...I called Eddie over under the pretence that I had lost my passport which, I actually did, so predictably, it kept us busy tearing my apartment apart and left me no time to spiral.”

That had been one hell of a day. 

_“How the fuck did it end up in your crisper, Trashmouth?! Where’s your driver's license, the freezer?!”_

Richie had only cackled and told him not to be dumb. 

It was obviously in the microwave.

Eddie even went to check, which only made Richie cackle louder. 

Jake leans forward in his seat, amused, “And where _was_ your passport?”

Richie snorts, “In my vegetable crisper of all places. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know either. Still, Eds found it pretty much instantly, but pretended he didn't so he could force me to clean my place,” he laughs with a shrug, “devious plan, really. But I found so much shit I thought was lost to the ether, so it was a win-win.” 

He neglects to tell the reporter that after he and Eddie found his long-forgotten comic book collection, they hadn’t finished their little impromptu spring cleaning that day and instead spent the afternoon lounging, much like they did in the hammock all those years ago, pressed tightly together and legs tangled on Richie’s couch, their feet practically in each other’s faces as they swapped issues back and forth. 

It had been one of the best days of Richie’s life. 

“Good thing your passport was never really lost, looks like you'll be needing it soon for the international leg of your tour, starting in Ireland next year,” Jake smiles, “you excited?

Richie nods vigorously, “Hell yeah, love Ireland, love the people. I'm all about green fields, good music and Guinness, you know? But yeah, can't wait for the European leg of the tour in general, I've got some great supporters out there as well as amazing US fans.”

Once those words leave his mouth, he knows what’s coming next. 

“Speaking of fans, since coming out, do you find that your fan-base has changed?”

Seriously, Richie is fucking psychic or something. He clears his throat, shifting a little in the seat, eyes instinctively wandering back over to Eddie only to find him, to Richie’s great annoyance, still stuck on his phone. 

_Who the fuck is he even texting? Everyone from the group chat is in this room._

He looks up to meet Stan’s eye, who tilts his head at him, giving a small, one-shouldered shrug.

Richie shoves down the irrational spike of irritation and looks back to the interviewer, “Oh, definitely. Like I said, a lot of LGBT peeps and allies hated my old shit, which, hey, can’t say I blame ‘em. It mostly catered to dudebros and divorcees who hate their wife. But now, I like to think I’m more open and honest with my audience, those who stuck with me and all the newbies, and I think they appreciate it.”

Jake smiles, nodding slightly. 

“And how has it been, writing your own stuff?”

Richie blows out a breath, thinking of all the sleepless late nights and gallons of coffee consumed over the last few months. His receding hairline definitely suffered from his nervous, hyperactive hands raking through it too. Just another reason Sandra is pissed at him. 

But Eddie, sitting, watching and listening intently as Richie fumbled over half-baked ideas and offering honest feedback as well as more than a few chuckles, chortles and, god help him, giggles, (that Eddie always vehemently denied) made it all a little easier. 

Not that Richie can say that, though. So instead, he tells a three-quarter-truth.

“Fucking hard, man. Terrifying. Not the scariest thing I’ve ever done, I’ll admit, but still high up on the potential-to-make-me-shit-my-pants scale. But it’s worth it. To be me. To be finally doing something I can be proud of, and I enjoy, so hopefully other people can too.”

"And we could argue that you've done that."

Richie grins at Jake’s summary.

“I hope so, man. Otherwise, people are gonna be pissed they’re out sixty-five bucks.”

They share a chuckle and the knot in Richie’s stomach loosens a little. The interview is going better than he could have imagined, they are really finding a nice flow. 

Jake shifts around on the chair, glancing down at his notes. 

"Well, now that we have all the showbiz talk out of the way - let’s get into the good stuff. The ooey gooey, nitty gritty.”

Richie raises an eyebrow, an ominous feeling washing over him. He leans forward to grab a bottle of water to try and abate his suddenly dry throat. 

“Who was your first crush?” 

He knocks the bottle to the floor, it clattering loudly as his heart begins to race. 

_Fuck. Spoke too soon, Tozier._

The room falls silent, and Richie feels seven pairs of eyes glance from the bottle, back up to him as the Kill Bill sirens start whirring in his head. He stares resolutely down at the rug under his feet, his pulse pounding in his ears. 

_Keep calm, Tozier. Don’t look at him. Keep fucking—_

“Uh—”

“If you say my mom dude, I swear to god.” 

It’s as if those are the magic words. Spoken from none other than Eds Spagheds himself, having finally glanced up from his phone, apparently.

A wide grin spreads across Richie’s face as he launches head-first into his comfort zone, cannonballing into his safety pool, his first line of defense - Eddie-Kaspbrak’s-mom-jokes.

“Oh, Mr Daniels, let me tell you all about how Mrs Sonia Kaspbrak stole my heart when I was but a boy of elev–"

  
“Richie,” Eddie warns, his voice pitched in a low timbre that has Richie violently suppressing a shiver, warmth pooling in his stomach at the sound.

_Now is not the time to pop a boner, Tozier. Horny, jizz-at-a-light-breeze, fourteen-year-old you had more control than this, for fuck’s sake._

It’s that line of thinking that has him suddenly bolting out of the chair, making a beeline for a puzzled Stanley and whipping the glass of water that he had been raising to his lips, right out of his grasp and gulping it down in one go.

  
He ignores the look of downright murder on his friend’s face as he aims his answer over his shoulder.

“What ya gotta know about where we grew up, Jake my man, was that it was a shithole. Truly a backwards fucking hellscape. So, there wasn’t a whole lotta options for a closet-case like yours truly."

And, true. There wasn’t. Bar a (maybe closeted/questioning/opportunistic) football player that moonlighted as a violent bully that Richie sucked off once and didn’t even particularly enjoy that much. 

The journalist however, doesn’t seem to be buying what Richie was selling.

“Oh, come on. You didn’t have _one_ crush?” 

Richie stumbles mid-step and tries to recover, his gaze locking with Stan’s in a panicked silence.

Stan’s expression, predictably, conveys an approximation of, _“The fuck you gonna do now, Tozier?”_

So, Richie goes to plan Buh-Buh-B – Bill Denbrough.

“Well, I maybe had a teeny-tiny thing for ol’ Billy boy, here,” he winks at Jake, throwing an arm around Big Bill’s shoulders and dropping a kiss to his cheek with a loud smack.

Bill rolls his eyes, giving him a playful shove.

“Yeah right, Rich.” 

_Shit. Play along, Bill!_

Richie mustn’t be half as good as Stanley at silently conveying his thoughts however as the writer merely stares blankly up at him.

“What?” Richie asks the room at large, hands open wide to convey an innocence he hasn’t felt in a long, long time, “is it that hard to believe that Big Bill got my blood pump–”

“Bullshit.” 

Richie finally lets his eyes be drawn over to Eddie, whose eyes are flashing, his cheeks a little flushed, breathing laboured. 

He looks... _hot_. Both literally and figuratively.

Richie’s stomach twists, heat blooming across his own face.

“Uh, not bullshit, Eds. What can I say? There was just something about that stutter of his, you know? Se-Sexy,” he jostles Bill, where his arm is still slung around his shoulder, leaning forward to glance across the room, “You get what I mean, right, Mikey?” 

_Good, Tozier. Deflect, deflect!_

He will feel a little bad about hinting at Mike’s crush (that Richie is sure only he has figured out) on Bill later.

Mike however, is doing his usual I-gotta-ignore-Richie-for-the-greater-good thing that he does and is exactly zero help. 

“Not buying it,” Eddie snorts.

Richie leans further into Bill, doubling-down on his excuse, grabbing the lifeline like a drowning man, “Come on, Eds, yeah you do. I’m pretty sure Bill Denbrough was _everyone’s_ first crush.” 

Hell, it wasn’t even that much of a lie as he was kinda Richie’s second, technically. Maybe? In a bromance kinda way? What could he say? All that heroic post-Pennywise stuff resonated with the superhero-obsessed Richie Tozier. Punch to his face notwithstanding.

But no one could ever hold a candle to Eddie Kaspbrak. What Richie felt for him was on another level altoget–

“Not mine.” 

Richie’s heart stops.

The room plunges into silence.

Richie feels six pairs of eyes flicker back and forth between him and Eddie as if they were engaging in an enthralling tennis match, complete with overly-sexual grunts.

_Don’t think about sexual grunting right now, asswipe._

Richie merely gapes at him, knowing he probably looks ridiculous with his tomato-face and bug-eyes, unsure how to even approach the concept of “not mine.” 

_Who was your first crush then, Eds?_ He wants to desperately ask, but his vocal cords don’t seem to want to cooperate, his brain far too focused on the tantalising, intriguing flush rising up Eddie’s neck as he visibly flounders, clearly at a loss for words too.

“Wow, thanks Eddie. I feel so loved,” Bill pipes up, instantly dissipating the weird tension that has engulfed the room.

Eddie winces, eyes lowering, “Uh, sorry Bill. I didn’t mean it like–"

“Who _did_ you have a crush on?” Richie cuts across him, blurting out the words before he can think better of it, his arm falling from Bill’s shoulder as he steps closer to Eddie who’s still sitting in the makeup chair, their gazes locking.

_Do you really wanna know, Richie? ‘Cause I don’t think you do…_ the voice in his head sounds eerily like Pennywise and Richie instantly hates that his impression of that fuckwad has improved so much over the years.

_  
What if it’s Stacey Winters? Or Rosie DeMarco? Or...Bev?_

_Or, worse. What if it’s one of the guys...just not you? Why would it have been you? You are gross and crass and everything that Eddie hate_ –

_Shut up, brain!_

Eddie stares up at him, as defiant as ever, looking so much like his thirteen-year-old self that it makes Richie’s heart ache. All sharp edges hiding gooey centers and stubborn wit masking something that Richie could never quite decipher.

Eddie’s eyes fall to the floor.

“Last time I checked, this was your interview, Rich. Not mine.” 

Richie feels the pent-up energy (that he refuses to call 'hope') drain from him like one of those godforsaken red balloons.

_What were you expecting, Trashmouth? A confession of everlasting love? Grow the fuck up._

  
“Have you ever been in love?” 

_Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me._

Richie’s heart really can’t take much more of this line of questioning. Physically or emotionally.

His entire body freezes up as a myriad of memories assault him. Him and Eddie eating pop rockets. Eddie buying him ice cream. Eddie putting a bandaid on Richie’s scraped knee, grumbling about infection. Eddie climbing into the hammock, practically on top of him and they sharing comics for hours. Richie cradling Eddie’s face in his hands as Pennywise edges closer to them. Richie watching forlornly as Eddie is packed into his mom’s car, arm broken and face dejected, forced away from them. Richie, taking out his dad’s knife and etching familiar initials into the old piece of wood. Then later, down in the sewers, covered in leper vomit and wild with fury, Eddie kicking out and screaming, “I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Eddie, burying his wet face in Richie's shoulder as they stand on the Kissing Bridge, both struggling for words (even though Richie's were right there, carved right on that post barely five feet from them) on the day that the Toziers would leave Derry forever. 

Then, even later, much, much later, Eddie arguing with him just like always, like no time had passed. Eddie goading him into an arm-wrestling match and bewilderingly spouting “Let’s take our shirts off and kiss!” And almost making Richie vomit with the amount of butterflies in his stomach. Eddie, with his two giant suitcases, ready to up and leave with Richie, make a break out of their shithole of a childhood town. Eddie standing in front of closets with him like some giant, too on-the-nose metaphor as a Pennywise ruins Pomeranians for them forever. Eddie leaning over him, elated, shouting, “Richie, listen, I think I got it, man. I think I killed IT! I did it! I think I killed it for rea–”

And then, later still, Eddie looking up at him, tears in his eyes, his voice soft as he says, “It’s me, Rich. I promise. I...I’m back," just before Richie collapses into him, sobbing into his shoulder. 

Richie’s eyes flicker, almost against his will, down towards Eddie as he forces out one syllable:

“Nope.” 

It’s by far the biggest lie Richie Tozier has ever told. And that’s saying something.

His skin crawls as he feels the eyes of the other Losers rake over him. They know the truth, of course they do. But it doesn’t make things any easier.

Richie forces his feet to move, get away, stop looking at Eddie fucking Kaspbrak lest he figure out the lie too.

“Anyone ever call you ‘Jack’ by mistake?” he asks Jake, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind to desperately try to change the subject as he plonks back down in his seat.

_Take the bait, please take the bait, I need a break, I can’t talk about––_

“God, I cannot tell you how many times a date has ordered me a JD and coke as a joke,” the journalist helpfully responds with a scoff.

“How unoriginal,” Richie snorts, scrambling onto the new subject like it’s a liferaft, “I’d go with a whiskey sour, myself. The joke’s still there, but more subtle.” 

He knows what he’s doing, of course. What his words imply. And he hates himself for it because he knows he has zero intention of following through.

_God, you’re such an asshole. He probably isn’t even into you anyway._

Jake lets out a laugh, noticeably flushed, suggesting that actually, he could be into Richie after all, but before he can say anything, a sudden movement catches their attention.

Eddie is standing up, shuffling towards the door, phone in hand, looking distracted.

“I uh, I gotta answer this.”

Ice floods Richie’s veins.

He drops his eyes to his hands, wringing them until he hears the door close with a snap.

_Does Eddie...is he...seeing someone?_

_No. No, Eds would tell me if he’s dating again. He would. Right? Fuck, we spend every spare second with each other, when would he have had time to–I mean, he does have a new job. I have been working in my office a lot and he takes long walks, goes to the gym...fuck, did he meet someone at the gym? Is that who he’s texting?_

Richie is suddenly assaulted with a barrage of images of Eddie and some tall, fit personal-trainer working out together. The blond, Fabio-esque gym-bunny giving Eds a post-workout massage and then leaning down to give him a whole other type of _post-workout-workout_. 

“So, can you tell me about the Adrian Mellon Foundation?”

Richie’s head jerks up, wrenched from the horrifying yet kinda hot daydream he had been having about his best friend getting railed by some Dolph Lundgren motherfucker. Somewhere, fourteen-year-old him is going fucking postal at his lack of control over his raging labido. It’s a sad day when he somehow has less than he did when he was a hormonal, acne-riddled, puberty-monster. 

_Focus, Tozier! This shit is serious._

“Yeah, sure. It was set up by me and Adrian’s partner, Don Hagerty, after Adrian was brutally beaten while visiting Derry,” he began, frowning as he recounted the tale, “they beat him within an inch of his life because he dared to kiss his boyfriend in public in 2016. He...he died, was clinically dead for...awhile,” he pauses, rubbing the back of his neck.

It is still difficult to talk about, even now. Not only because of the emotional trauma, but also because he couldn’t possibly tell the full-truth. 

Those bastards had brought Adrian to the edge of death.

And Pennywise had shoved him off it. 

He still had the scar, right over his heart to prove it.

Richie and Don agreed, once the foundation had started to take off, that they had to come up with a plausible story. Something to explain Adrian’s injuries, the severity of the crime committed, while clearing up the confusion surrounding his reported death and also omitting any clown-related details. 

He sat forward in his seat, straightening his back as he relayed their cover-story.

“Then, by some medical marvel, he pulled through. Still, he had a lot of problems after the attack and his recovery wasn’t easy. Don and I met in the hospital after...after my friend was...injured in a separate incident. We got to talking one night in the cafeteria and struck up a friendship. I had read about Adrian’s attack and Don filled me in on all the details. Everything just kinda snowballed from there.”

And that, was mostly the truth. Like, 80% at least. He and Don _did_ officially meet in the hospital, but it was after both Adrian and Eddie had been resurrected, Eddie under Neibolt and clawing his way out, still injured but breathing again, and Adrian frightening the absolute shit outta some M.E. in the morgue. Richie had gotten the call from Derry General after he had gotten the hell outta dodge, flew home, fired his agent, cancelled his tour, packed some shit, fell apart over Stan’s stupid letter and fled back to a shitty, rented apartment in Bangor once Mike had left for Florida and the rest of the Losers had gone back to their everyday lives.

Richie was staying in fucking Maine until he could get Eddie’s body out from under Neibolt. 

He had thought it was a prank call when he first picked up.

“Hello, this is Nurse Liza from Derry General, I’m calling on behalf of Edward Kaspbrak?” 

Richie promptly dropped the phone as if it was on fire. 

_That bitch of a clown is back. Motherfucker! I’m gonna have the get the gang all back together with some fucking C4 or some shit. Maybe then they’ll let me get Eddie’s bod–_

“Mr Tozier? Mr Tozier? I have Mr Kaspbrak here, he’d like to speak with you,” a tinny voice called from where the phone had fallen onto the couch cushion. 

_No. Fuck no. He can’t...I can’t…_

With shaking hands, he clutched the phone in a death-grip and held it up several inches from his ear.

“What?” he asked, probably harsher than necessary, but fuck niceities. Sadistic demon aliens who impersonated dead friends didn’t deserve politeness. 

“Hello to you too, asshole.” 

Richie choked out a laugh that quickly turned into a sob.

“You’re...you’re a sick fuck,” he gasped down the phone, his entire body quivering as fury burned in his veins, “we’re gonna nuke your ass this time, you hear me?! Bullying you and crushing your cold, slimy heart didn’t work, so we’re going fucking nuclear now, bitch. I’ll blow up that entire shitty town if I have to! How dare you use _his fucking voice–”_

“Rich, Richie! No,it’s me, man. I promise. Look I...I can’t explain _–_ ”

Richie let out a humourless laugh, standing up from the couch, beginning to pace frantically.

“FUCK YOU! You’re not him! I’m not falling for this shit again _..._ I can’t _–_ ”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, shoving down the welling emotion as best he could.

“Richie, I swear it’s me. I’m not... _you know who_ , okay? I...I don’t know how to prove it but, look,” not-Eddie’s voice dropped to almost a whisper, “I woke up in the sewers, dude. I...I still have a hole in my chest but it...it healed up, kinda? A little? Enough for me to get to a hospital anyway. But, look dude, I’m not alo-”

“How the hell did you get out?” Richie inquired, tone tense, as he tried not to let the memory of that day sneak into his brain, "Neibolt collapsed, caved the fuck in on itself when you _–_ ” 

Even now, two months later, Richie still couldn’t say it. Despite seeing it every time he closed his eyes.

“There was, it was almost like a tunnel? I...I can’t really explain it, dude,” not-Eddie rambled, his voice growing louder and faster just like it did when they were kids and he was desperately trying to get his point across, “I just knew that that was the way I needed to go to get to–” 

“Okay, fine, say you _are_ Eddie,” Richie cut across him, teeth clenched, wondering why the fuck he was even entertaining this idea.

(He knew well enough.)

“If you’re _really_ Eddie Kaspbrak, _really_ my best friend since the third fucking grade, tell me this…” he paused, glancing helplessly around his sparse apartment, trying to summon his courage to breathe out, “...what’s my biggest secret?” 

_Got you now, bitch. You never could resist taunting me about that. My ‘dirty little secret.’ And it’s something Eddie sure as fuck never knew. I made sure of that._

A beat of silence passed.

“I...I don’t know, Richie? You never...if it’s a secret _–_ how the fuck can I tell you something I don’t know?” 

_Okay, fair point._

_Still…_

“I’m hanging up now, fuckwad. You even _think_ of impersonating him to my face and I’ll chop your fucking dick off,” he growled, raking a weary hand down his face, “do you even have a dick? Whatever, I’ll chop off whatever your approximation of a dick is you mother–”

“Richie, Adrian Mellon is alive too!”

He blinked.

_Adrian Mellon…? Why is that name–_

“The kid who got beaten up by those bastards at the fair? The same guy that Mike said the clown got to? He...he’s here with me, Rich. Beat to shit, with a hole in his chest too. But…" his voice lowers even further, with just a hint of hysteria, "his heart _grew back_ , dude.” 

_Well, fuck._

“Okay, say I believe you,” Richie replied through his brain’s screaming protests, “why did you call me?”

Here, not-Eddie seemed to falter.

“Why...why wouldn’t I? You’re...you’re my best friend, Rich. Or you were, once. And when I woke up, all I could think of was...you were the last person I saw before I…” he trailed off, heaving a wet sigh that stabbed Richie through the chest.

_Bad analogy, Tozier._

“I knew, out of everyone, you’d give me a chance. Are you, Rich? You gonna hear me out? Gonna give me a chance?” 

_He shouldn’t._

_Couldn’t._

_Would––_

“I don’t know yet. But, Maybe-Eds…” he held up a hand, despite knowing that this Maybe-Eddie-person couldn’t see him. “One more question. How the fuck did you get my number? Don't remember giving ol’ Pennywise my digits.” 

Another loud sigh, more irritated this time, came down the line.

“I memorised it when you first gave it to me outside the clubhouse before we split up, dude. People rely too fucking much on their phones these days. You can’t just trust them to program everything! What about emergencies like this when your phone is submerged in fucking grey water and you need to know fucking numbers to _..._ ”

_Fuck. He sounds so fucking much like Eddie._

Pennywise allusion or not, his voice was the best thing Richie had heard in months.

He zoned out to what maybe-Eddie was actually saying and just let the sound of his voice wash over him as he sank down onto his shitty couch, in his shitty apartment that he rented in Bangor for the sole purpose of getting Eddie Kaspbrak (what he had thought would be just his remains) back.

And here he was. In the (alive) flesh. Maybe.

“Eds!” Richie cut him off after a solid minute of ranting about people never bothering to remember anything anymore, his heart breaking and soaring all at once. 

“I’ll...I’ll see you soon.” 

A beat of silence met his ears before the voice, _his voice_ , replied quietly:

“Okay, Rich. See you soon. And... _don’t call me Eds_.” 

“When you say snowballed, do you mean your very public campaign to get those responsible for the attack arrested?”

Richie blinks, spat back into the present, the vestiges of the day he heard Eddie’s voice again settling into the back of his mind, where it lay in wait to sooth his anxieties about deaths and deadlights most nights. 

_Eddie is alive. Adrian is alive. Stan is alive._

Richie will never forget that phone call from Georgia (merely two hours after he laid eyes on Eddie, a little worse for wear, scarred, but very much alive) for as long as he lives.

He focuses on Jake, nodding, his jaw clenching as he thought about the shitheads who beat Adrian to near-death.

“Way I see it, I have a platform. Might as well use it, get the word out there. There were shit-stains in shitsville, Maine, thinking they could get away with a hate crime, an attempted fucking murder. Fuck that. So, if the police refused to do their jobs, someone else was gonna do it for them.” 

Even he had been blown away by the response, though. Never underestimate the power of the internet. 

“And it worked,” Jake states rather than asks.

A small smile spreads across Richie’s face.

“Yeah, it worked. My tweets went viral and before I knew it, the FBI got involved, somehow, I don’t understand how jurisdiction works, man, but they got those assholes. They’re serving fifteen to life as we speak.” 

“Justice was served.”

Richie nods, thinking back to the moment that Adrian got to watch his tormentors being led away in cuffs, tall and strong despite his injuries.

It had been a sight to behold.

“And how is Adrian doing now?” 

Richie grins, thinking of the man who had become a close friend over the last two years, “He’s better. Still has weekly physical therapy, but he’s getting there. Having the foundation, helping other LGBTQ+ people, I think it’s really helped his own recovery. And Don...well, he needed a new job and it just so happened that I needed a new PA–”

He breaks off with a laugh, “So, Don and Adrian became good friends of mine. We were brought together through tragedy and stayed together out of our shared love for Meg Ryan." 

  
They had had many movie marathons in the last few months, much to Eddie’s chagrin. 

He’s more of a Sandy Bullock kinda guy, apparently. Which, fair. 

Jake snickers loudly as Richie finishes, "They're now honorary members of the Losers Club. Just you know," he waves a hand, pulling a face, "millennials.” 

_Young bastards._

Richie’s heart always warms at the picture Adrian and Don make. They are so in love it makes him want to explode into heart-shaped confetti or some bullshit.

_It also reminds you of what you’re missing. What you’ve never had._

Richie shoves that thought away, grumbling at his inner voice and his unfortunate case of envy.

Jake leans forward in the seat, a welcome distraction,his hand beginning to outstretch as he says, “Well, Richie, I think _––_ ”

A loud, sharp knock cuts him off.

Richie frowns, staring at the door for a beat, before offering the journalist an apologetic smile and making his way over to it, flinging it open. 

Two short brunets stare up at him, one with a cheeky grin on his face and the other with an underlined ire. 

“I learned how to knock, asshole,” Eddie Kaspbrak throws him a sarcastic smile before tilting his head to the man to his left, “and look who I found at the catering table.”

Adrian Mellon steps forward and pulls Richie into him with a strength that never fails to surprise him. 

“Hey man,” he smiles into the shorter man’s shoulder as he hears Beverly exclaim from behind him, “Adrian!”

“Bev, babe, give me some sugar,” Adrian grins, playfully shoving Richie out of the way to hug the redhead. 

“Rude,” Richie mutters, taking a step back and watching as Adrian is descended upon by the rest of the Losers. 

“Hey guys,” Adrian smiles warmly from the giant, almost-group-hug, scanning the room, before his eyes land on Jake, “shit, Rich, sorry. Didn’t realise the interview was today.”

Richie merely shrugs and gestures to Jake, “Jake from Here ‘n’ Queer Magazine, meet Adrian Mellon. Adrian, this is Jake. He’s been asking me all kinds of awkward questions.” 

Adrian reaches out and shakes Jake’s hand, his dark eyes twinkling.

“Ooh, I _love_ awkward questions. Can I stay and eavesdrop?” He asks with a tilted head at Richie, “it’s boring watching Don argue with your publicist over the phone.” 

Without waiting for a response, Adrian grabs a coke out of the mini-fridge, nudging Stan and throwing him a private smile. 

Those two have been as thick as thieves ever since they came up with the Dead Losers Society. It is a party of three, where Adrian, Stan and Eddie get together every so often and get drunk, lamenting how fucked up it is that they all remember dying and being dead, or whatever. Richie silently thinks it’s creepy as fuck, but he has never been one to question how anyone deals with their trauma. 

_Oh, like renting a random apartment in Bangor so you could plan a way to somehow excavate Eddie’s body out from under Neibolt and maybe try and bring him back to life with some black magic that you found in some bullshit book you stole from Mike’s collection? Pot meet kettle, Tozier._

“We’re coming up on T-minus thirty minutes to showtime,” Bev pipes up, tapping his shoulder, “think it’s time to get dressed, honey.”

Richie’s brain does a record scratch. 

“What, _here_? You guys want a strip-tease?”

Adrian lets out a loud wolf-whistle while Mike, Bill, and Ben start hooting and clapping. Stan meets Richie’s eye and slowly raises his empty glass (that Richie had drained earlier) that is clearly a silent dare. 

The image of Richie kicking all these assholes out of the room and giving Eddie a private show flashes across his brain so suddenly that he has to physically clamp down his teeth on his bottom lip before he can whirl around and blurt out some joke that will be that little bit too close to home for anyone’s comfort. 

Bev rolls her eyes, “C'mon, shirt off.”

Richie presses a hand to his chest, scandalised expression in place that’s really only to mask just how red his face is going. 

_Don’t look at Eddie, don’t look at Eddie, don’t look at—_

“Beverly, I’m flattered, but you are an engaged woman. And I am very gay.” 

Eddie suddenly appears from behind him, shoving a large suit-bag into Richie’s hands, and pointing over his shoulder.

“There’s the bathroom, genius. You don’t need to subject anyone to your nudity.”

Richie tries not to wince at that. 

_Like Eds would ever want to see your gross dad bod, Trashmouth._

“Aw, you sure, Eds?” He asks aloud, trying to drown out the mean, self-deprecating little voice that sounds jarringly like Sonia Kaspbrak for some reason, “My dad bod may not be as aesthetically-pleasing as Haystack’s–well... _everything_ ,” he gestures lewdly up and down at Ben, “but I got some killer dance-moves.”

Eddie blinks at him, an indescribable expression on his face before he scoffs beginning to shove Richie, “That’s the first lie you’ve told today. You dance like an inflatable tube man on crack.” 

He punctuates his point with one giant push that sends Richie over the threshold of the bathroom and pulling the door shut behind him. 

Richie stares at the door for several seconds before sighing, shaking his head. 

One of these days, Eddie Kaspbrak’s hands on him, even if only to force him into a room, would not get his heart racing like coffee and porn on a Sunday morning — but today is not that day. 

Shrugging, he starts to disrobe, hanging the suit up on the hook on the door and kicking off his converse. From outside, he can hear the muffled sounds of the Losers and Jake making conversation and can’t help but wonder what the fuck they’re talking about in his absence.

Or what the reporter could be _asking them_ in his absence. 

_Shit. Gotta be quick!_

He hurriedly but carefully begins slipping on the slacks and shirt that Bev had designed and tailored expertly for him. It is nigh on impossible to avoid his own reflection with the giant, rectangular mirror filling one wall of the room, so naturally, Richie finds his eyes drawn to it. 

His heart pangs in his chest. 

Look, he knows what he looks like, okay? He knows he’s never gonna be a Brad Pitt or a George Clooney, or a Ben Hanscom. That goes without saying. 

Even at thirteen, Richie knew (despite what he may have said) what “you grow into your looks” really means. 

But lately, he can’t help but notice just how much he fell short in the looks department, particularly in comparison to all his supermodel-esque friends. Even Bill and Stan, arguably the more “regular attractive” types, were streets ahead of Richie. 

But Mike, Bev, Ben and Eddie? 

Richie isn’t even on the same planet as them. 

Eddie, even with his horrible fashion tastes of polo shirts and khakis, set his heart on fire as soon as they locked eyes in The Jade, just as he had back in the day when his signature style was short shorts and fanny-packs. 

The man could wear a potato sack and still be insanely attractive. With his sexy, lean yet ridiculously-built bod (sculpted from years of anxiety-induced exercise) to his large, expressive, bush-baby eyes that Richie fell in love with thirty years ago — Eddie is exquisite. 

Richie looks like Bert if his best friend was coke and bourbon instead of adorably annoying Ernie.

With slightly trembling hands, Richie reaches up for the suit jacket, carefully slipping it on over his broad shoulders and smoothing it down over his arms before daring to glance up. 

The light is...unforgiving.

He is awash in a clinical glow that casts shadows in all the wrong places. The foundation that Sandra insisted on putting on him thankfully covers the dark bags Richie knows have taken permanent residence under his eyes like he’s a luggage conveyor belt at an airport, but the rest of him looks...sickly. 

He looks like a gangly ostrich with the flu and a fancy jacket. 

Not exactly a good look. 

But it is the shitty hand that he had been dealt back in March of ‘76. So, not much he can do about it now. 

Heaving a sigh, Richie draws himself up to his full height, one physical advantage he always did have. Slowly, carefully, he hones his craft of wiping away the vestiges of self-doubt, of niggling-worry and negative-thought from his body, carefully constructing his Trashmouth stage persona, the one that radiates self-confidence, assurance and a kind of upbeat nihilism. He may be more honest with his audience now, on a personal level, but some things are harder to shake. Are embedded in his very DNA of him, if only for ninety minutes at a time. 

His costume, his armour.

His game face. 

Game body. 

Game mind. 

_The whole world’s a stage..._

He can revert back to regular ol’ Richie, complete with neuroses and anxieties and doubts as soon as the show is over. But for now…

“Show time.”

He speaks directly into the mirror. 

His reflection is not impressed. 

With a roll of his eyes, he turns on his heel, facing the door, hearing the slight murmur of Eddie from behind it. 

The opportunity is too good to pass up. 

He reaches out and shoves the door open quick and with feeling, thrilled at making Eddie (and Jake, oops) jump in surprise. 

“I’m ready for my close-up, Ms Marsh!”

Several heads turn to stare at him and he isn’t quite sure where to look, their eyes feeling like several x-ray machines. He can feel self-consciousness beginning to seep into his veins so he cuts it off abruptly. 

“Well, what do ya think?” He asks, propping his chin in his hands much like he had at thirteen and turning to them all, “Have I finally _grown into my looks_?”

Bev rolls her eyes, a fond smile on her face as the rest of the Losers chuckle, making murmurs of agreement. 

“You look good, Rich,” she assures him with a knowing glint in her eye, fixing his sleeve. 

Richie pulls his very best ugly-face just to spite her. 

“No need to lie, Ringwald. I’m well aware what ‘growing into my looks’ means. I'm no oil paint–"

“You look really handsome.” 

Richie’s heart leaps into his throat. He blinks at his friend, hardly believing his ears. He can practically feel his cheeks turning a deep crimson as he gapes at Eddie who is standing still, rooted to the floor, openly staring at him, seeming just as shocked that those words had come from his mouth.

“Uh…” Richie clears his throat, his heart rate rising to what he thinks is at least an allegro (he remembers fuck all about musical tempos) as he struggles to form words.

Eddie Kaspbrak has never been a man to mince words. Always honest, brutally so, from the time he was a kid. He was never one to say anything just for the sake of it (in his opinion, his rants and tangents and info-dumps were always 100% necessary and pivotal, from the dangers of uncut nails to which Street Fighter character was the best. That one, Richie vehemently disagreed with to this day, but he always listened to his friend’s roadrunner-paced rant nonetheless.) 

So, if Eddie says he looks alright, then...he must look alright.

His lips twitch into a soft smile.

“Thanks, Eds.” 

Eddie nods frantically, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes lowering and catching on something that makes him wince.

Richie beams when he realises what that something is a split-second before Eddie grumbles, “Are you seriously gonna keep the Converse though, dude? Aren’t they a little too…‘90s Nirvana grunge for that suit?” 

Richie snorts, “‘90s Nirvana grunge has been my jam since the actual ‘90s, Eds. You of all people should remember that.” 

He sure as fuck does. Richie will never forget that trip across the country to see Kurt Cobain in the flesh - or, he’ll never forget again, anyway. Eddie had been...something else. Ethereal. His head tipped back against the sun, his already tan skin gleaming, his eyes closed, his chestnut hair flying in the wind.

Rebellion suited him.

Richie had been so distracted by his...everything, that he almost crashed his dad’s truck like three separate times. 

_“Watch the fucking road, Trashmouth! The fuck are you looking at? You’re from Maine, corn fields aren’t that interesting, dickwad!”_

Present-day-Eddie rolls his eyes at him, “Yeah, dickwad. I remember you dragging me halfway across the country to see Kurt Cobain because he was ‘the voice of a generation, Eddie Spaghetti, you wouldn’t understand’,” he punctuates with air-quotes and a truly terrible impression of teenage Richie.

Richie smiles anyway.

He senses a Kaspbrakian rant of epic proportions coming up.

Eddie takes a breath, eyes narrowed, pointing a finger in Richie’s face, much like he had back in 1992, “Only for us to _finally_ get there and realise you had been stiffed with fake-ass tickets. How you actually believed you got the real deal for twenty bucks, I’ll never know. And then, THEN your shitty-ass truck breaks down in the middle of nowhere and we had to call your dad to pick us up. I was never more embarrassed in my life. My mom sent out a search party for me, asshole. After everything that happened in ‘89, I’m surprised she didn’t have you arrested for kidnapping me.” 

_Some things never change._

Richie remembers looking at him back then, sitting in the driver’s seat of their stalled truck as Eddie just let loose, yelling about ‘fucking scams’, and ‘ticket scalpers are the devil incarnate’ and ‘how the fuck did you actually think you’d get the real deal for twenty bucks, jackass,' all while karate-chopping his hands through the air like Daniel LaRusso himself.

It was the best road trip Richie had ever been on.

Still was, after all this time. 

Even though he’d never get to see Kurt Cobain, it had still been worth it. 

Because he had gotten a full day of complete, lone access to an unfiltered, uninhibited, undiagnosed-hyperactive Eddie Kaspbrak. Taking him out of Derry seemed to transform him. The further away he got from the clutches of Mommy Dearest, he...came alive in a way that Richie had only seen a handful of times, but always ached for. 

Watching him now, he’s as alive at forty-two as he was at fifteen, further away from Derry than he had ever been and free from Sonia’s (and Myra's) talons forever. It was truly everything Richie had ever wanted for Eddie.

He couldn’t stop the beam from spreading across his face even if he wanted to.

“What happened in ‘89?” 

Richie blinks, coming back down to earth as Eddie’s jaw noticeably clenches. 

“None of your business, FOX News.” 

He suppresses a snort, but just barely. 

“Spagheds, play nice. Don’t want the Here ‘n’ Queer folks to read all about the bitchy company I keep, do you?” 

Eddie lets out a loud scoff, “It’s a bit late for that, thanks to your Tweets and Instagram streams, man. That ship has sailed.” 

Richie is highly aware that his face is doing something incredibly incriminating, his whole body warming as he’s reminded of their online presence over the last year.

#reddie had fucking ended him.

He doesn’t think he has ever gotten so many comments and DMs inquiring about his relationship status before in his entire comedic career. 

His fans are...enthusiastic about his and Eddie’s antics to say the least. 

And the speculating? Well...that literally keeps him up at night sometimes. But better that than deadlights and the memory of the love of your life dying right in front of you.

It wouldn’t stop him from livestreaming Eddie cooking either because, _fuck_. Just when he thought he couldn’t possibly find Eddie Kaspbrak more attractive, he had wandered into his kitchen one morning to the enticing smell of something delicious, the very pleasant humming of an old Frank Sinatra song, and the sight of his best friend, work-shirt rolled up to his elbows, skillet in hand. 

Richie had nearly fainted.

Like, legit. Almost passed the fuck out, right there in his Dennis the Menace lounge pants. 

It was how most of his fantasies started, if he’s being honest, minus the unfortunate sleepwear.

But what was better than any fantasy his horny, lovesick brain could come up with, was how...weirdly patient Eddie was when he started explaining some cooking technique to Richie. He was so captivating in fact, that Richie barely registered himself beginning to record the whole impromptu-lesson.

And the rest was history.

Eddie had complained at first, bemoaning Richie’s deception and ‘fucking social media obsession,’ but soon accepted it, pretending he didn’t notice when Richie aimed his phone at a terrible angle as he moved about his kitchen in a bid to _“make sure you get all your nutrients, jackass. You’re forty-two and have the diet of a broke college student whose idea of cooking is putting water on unseasoned noodles.”_

Richie didn’t record all of the cooking, though. No. There were some mornings, and a lot of nights, that were just for them. 

The dinners were...something else.

They definitely felt...different. The two of them sitting across Richie’s table from one another, sharing stories and memories and hardships that they had missed out on in their twenty-four year interlude. Laughing and drinking and eating the amazing meal that Eddie made for them and Richie insisted he ‘helped’ with but really spent the whole time making lewd gestures with vegetables and staring at Eddie’s forearms.

As he looked across his table though, when Eddie would pause to take a sip of wine, his cheeks already adorably flushed from alcohol and hot ovens, Richie couldn’t help but feel like it was almost, if he didn’t know better, a _dat_ –

Richie forces his feet to move away from Eddie, putting physical distance between them as he tries to stop his racing mind, knowing thoughts like that were dangerous and hurtful.

_Then again, you always were a bit of a masochist, weren’t you, Tozier?_

“Don didn’t talk you into the contacts idea, I see,” Adrian pipes up, snapping him from his reverie, gesturing to the glasses still very much on his face.

Richie stops at the mirror, looking into it and catching Adrian’s eye, grimacing. 

“Ugh, Hell no. Been there, done that, got the pink-eye. I once dated a guy that tried to get me to wear them ‘cause my glasses made me look like ‘a lankier, less sexy Buddy Holly,’ apparently. I lasted three days. It was a fuckin’ disaster. I kept forgetting to take them out and slept with them in and,” he shudders at the memory, “they’d end up in the most uncomfortable places. It suh-ucked. He broke up with me after I moaned about peeling one off my ass." 

Yeah, Eric had been a grade-A dick.

And a shitty lay.

And probably an anti-vaxxer too. He really gave Richie that kinda vibe.

He sees Eddie shake his head out of the corner of his eye.

"Bastard,” Adrian grumbles before Richie can ponder what could be going through Eds’ mind. 

“Is that the last time you got laid?” 

_Is it too soon to make a I’m-gonna-kill-Adrian joke?_ Richie finds himself asking mentally as he stares at the younger man in the mirror. 

_Probably._

He knows what the little shit is doing, of course. Adrian is a lot of things, but subtle is not one of them. Ever since they met, he had had Richie and his giant heart-boner for his best friend pegged. And not in the fun way.

And ever since then, he seemed on a mission to try and make Richie do something about it.

Richie understands why he and Stan get on so well. You know, in addition to the ‘we-both-died-and-came-back-to-life’ thing.

“Have you asked him _that_ embarrassing question, yet?” Adrian asks the journalist with an innocent tilt of his head when Richie is silent for too long.

“Adrian!” Richie scolds, his voice at least two octaves higher than normal, “Dude, nobody wants to know about–”

  
“ _Everybody_ wants to know about your sex-life, Richie. Or, lack thereof,” Adrian dismisses with a wave, turning back to Jake, “I’ve been trying to set him up since I met him. But he’s having none of it, the spoilsport.” 

Richie feels a flush of embarrassment. 

“I don’t need your help getting a–”

“Didn’t you say like ten minutes ago that you ‘need all the help you can get?’” Stan quotes like the smug bastard he is, cutting across Richie’s protest. 

Well, yeah. Technically. But when Adrian said it, it made him feel…

_Pathetic._

“I–that’s not what I meant,” Richie replies, his voice weaker than he would have liked, “can we change the–”

“So when _is_ the last time you got laid, then?” Adrian continues, gleam in his eye, ‘Cause I think you may have had a point with your old standup, Rich. It could be a ‘use it or lose it’ type of situation when it comes to Little Richard.” 

God, Eds always hated when he called his dick ‘Little Richard.’ " _‘Dick’ is already your name and a slang word for penis, genius. Why call your junk after the guy who sang ‘Good Golly Miss Molly’?!”_

“I...do alright, Mellon,” Richie lies through gritted teeth, carefully avoiding anyone’s eye lest he be called out for talkin’ trash. 

“Hmm,” Adrian quirks an eyebrow, clearly not believing a word, “I’m not so sure. I mean, I keep saying you could clean up. You all could, you sexy bastards,” he gestures across the room, “Mike is the muscle stud, Eddie has a kinda twink-vibe goin’ on–”

“Seriously?” 

Richie grins at Eddie’s indignation, tickled that it’s not aimed at him for once.

Adrian merely winks at him.

A lightbulb goes off in Richie’s head, he leaning forward to catch Eddie’s eye.

“Oh come on Eds, don’t be dumb. You’re not a twink.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re too old.”

Eddie, predictably, whirls on him, finger pointed defiantly in his face.

  
“Fuck you! I’m only twelve hours older than you ar–”

“If anything,” Richie interjects nonchalantly, “you’re a twunk.”

And fuck, Eddie definitely is.

Richie may not be the most fluent in gay-lingo, but he does think, given Eds’ body type and overall...aura, that that’s a fair accessment. Even if he still could be considered a little too old.

A wonderful frown passes over Eddie’s face.

“The fuck is a ‘twunk’?” 

An unfamiliar laugh cuts him off before he can even open his mouth.

Richie turns to find Jake watching them, eyes alight with amusement.

“Sorry, sorry,” he holds up his hands, looking abashed, “it’s just...you guys should have your own show, or something.” 

Well, they kinda do. If their livestreams count. And Richie’s fans (they having become Eddie’s fans too) certainly seem to think so if their comments and replies begging them for vlogs and podcasts, are any indication. 

“Well...Richie already does,” Eddie says slowly, an enigmatic look on his face.

A sudden knock sounds from the door before anyone can respond.

“You’re on in ten, Rich!” a familiar voice calls.

Richie shakes himself, “Thanks, Don!” 

“Have you seen Adrian?” 

The man in question straightens up, a small smile gracing his face.

“And...that’s my cue,” he announces, nodding at Jake, “it was nice meeting you. Cannot wait to read your exposé on this party-animal.”

Richie deftly flips him off that Adrian easily returns with a smirk before tilting his head at the journalist, “Hey, are you single? It’s just, Richie definitely has a thing for brunets and you–”

“Isn’t Don waiting on you, Adrian?” Eddie cuts across him just as Richie’s heart is fit to burst out of his chest Alien-style.

Eddie pushes Adrian gently to the door as he continues, something suspicious laced in his tone, “Yeah, you’re right, Eddie,” he nudges him with his elbow, “Besides, we should probably leave these two alone to finish their interview. Richie goes on soon, but a lot can happen in ten minutes, right?” 

Richie’s stomach twists into knots.

_What the fuck does he mean by that?_

Eddie seems to throw Adrian a look that mirrors the ‘what the fuck-ness’ that Richie feels.

“Uh–”

“Yeah, we should probably all head out,” Bev announces, cutting off whatever Eddie was going to say, “we gotta go find our seats.” 

Richie watches in amusement as The Losers begin making a move, the room a flurry of activity as with most things concerning them. He takes his usual place, right at the door for their little tradition of lining up and giving him their unique break-a-legs on the way out. It’s just as enjoyable the sixth time as it was on the first.

“Break a leg, Rich.” 

“I’ll break all three, Big Bill.”

“Give ‘em hell, Richie.”

“Heaven, hell and purgatory, Mikey.”

  
“Don’t forget to do your stretches before you go on. You don’t wanna cramp up.” 

“I refuse to be a yoga gay, Bev. Stop trying to convert me.” 

“We’ll be cheering you on in the front row!”

“You better, Benny boy. Didn’t put your pretty mug front and center for nothin’.”

“Don’t fuck up.”

  
“A wordsmith as always, Stanley. And hey, don’t forget to type out the minutes from your meeting of The Dead Losers' Society. I don’t wanna miss out on any hot goss.”

Stanley merely rolls his eyes at him, giving him a pat on his shoulder that says, _“Think about what I said, Rich.”_

Richie has no idea what his face says back.

He watches the Losers leave for a beat, before glancing back. It’s the three of them now - Richie, Eddie and Jake.

(Richie tries very hard not to make a threesome joke, even in his head because honestly, he doesn’t need that image fucking him up even more.)

“FOX News,” Eddie nods at the reporter, arms crossing over his chest.

“Twunk,” Jake nods back.

Richie’s glances between the two of them, knowing he’s missing something. He soon feels Eddie’s gaze on him, and it’s all he can focus on. Those dark eyes rake over his face, as if searching for something written under his skin. Richie’s heart thumps hard in his chest as he waits for - what?

Finally, Eddie shakes his head and clears his throat, whatever spell that had befallen him, broken. He takes a step further into Richie’s space, reaching out and laying a hard on his shoulder, their eyes locking.

“Uh, you got this, dude. Remember...you’re...you’re braver than you think. I–I’ll leave you guys to it.” 

Before Richie can do much more than take in a breath, Eddie does his usual power-walk out of the room without a backwards glance, leaving Richie feeling bereft, his default state whenever Eddie exits anywhere.

_Jesus_ _Christ, Tozier._

  
He stares at the space that Eddie had just been, letting out a slow breath, trying to calm himself.

“You’re in love with him, huh?” 

It doesn’t come as a shock. Not really.

Jake would hardly be an investigator worth his salt if he didn’t see right through Richie and his neon-sign-hanging-over-his-heart kinda love.

“Off the record?” 

Jake leans forward and snatches his dictaphone from off the table. Richie knows he had turned it off long ago anyway, but appreciates the sentiment.

“Off the record,” he assures gently.

Richie turns to him, knowing his face is open in a way that he rarely lets anyone see as he takes a deep breath and says the words that so easily come to him, but are so hard to leave him, they having made a home in his heart long ago and rarely travel past his chest cavity to vacation on his lips.

“I’ve been in love with that short-assed, short-fused hypochondriac since I was twelve years old.” 

A beat passes.

Something loosens in Richie’s chest.

The world doesn’t end because he told someone. 

_That someone isn’t Eddie, though. And he could end your world with a few short words._

_Something like, “I'm sorry, Rich. But I don't feel the same way.” Or, “It’s too weird being around you now. I’m gonna move back to New York.” Or, worst case scenario, “Are you fucking kidding me, Tozier? How the fuck could I ever love you? You’re like, the grossest person I know. Always have been, always will_ —

Jake chuckles, pulling Richie from his downward spiral.

“Yeah. I figured.”

The journalist holds out his hand.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Richie Tozier. I can honestly say, you’re nothing like what I expected.” 

Richie shakes his hand.

  
“Is...that a good thing?” 

“Oh, yeah.”

  
“Then it was a pleasure meeting you too, Jake Daniels. I hope you find someone who would never dream of ordering you a JD and coke.” 

Jake lets out one last laugh, and with that, he takes his leave leaving Richie alone with his thoughts. 

Richie glances around the dressing room, the atmosphere a bit ominous now that it’s not filled with the raucous energy of seven Losers, a journalist and an Adrian.

_Huh. Sounds like the start of a joke. The Losers, a journalist and an Adrian walk into a—_

It’s far too quiet.

To the shock of no one, Trashmouth was never a huge fan of quietness. He always felt an itch under his skin, an inherent discomfort with silence, out of place in it, a foreign entity within it. 

And still, he remembers as he lingers there in front of the ajar door of his dressing room, that on his last day in Derry, as he and Eddie stood together on the Kissing Bridge, wrapped around each other in a tight embrace that they didn’t know would be their last for nearly three decades, he had actually savoured the quiet. The silence marred by nothing but their rasping breaths as they allowed themselves to cry. To curse the unfairness of the world. Hundreds of unsaid words being lost to their moment of repose.

He had said something though, just before Eddie pulled him close and hugged him as tighter than his petite, fifteen-year-old self should have been capable of.

It just wasn’t what Richie had wanted to tell Eds. No, that had been written on the wooden post a few feet to his right.

_R+E_.

But that, as short and seemingly simple as it seemed, was anything but.

So, what Richie said instead was: 

_“I fucked your mom.”_

Because Richie Tozier was never a great wordsmith like Tolstoy or Beckett or Shakespeare.

_“That’s it?”_ Eddie had exclaimed, shoving him in exasperation, _“that’s the ‘big thing’ you needed to tell me before leaving forever? God, you’re an idiot.”_

Richie had looked at him, then. Drank in every inch of Eddie Kaspbrak he could see, to commit him to memory - his very own mental picture that he had no idea would begin to fade as soon as he crossed Derry lines for good.

_“What can I say, Eds? We can’t all be Shakespeare.”_

What he meant was - _I love you. I’ll miss you. Please don’t forget me._

The hug that Eddie pulled him into stayed with him longer than any other memory. The ghost of his hands clutching Richie’s back as his face buried in his shoulder lingered in the fringes of Richie’s mind for months. Years. How he had felt in that moment, pain, anguish and more love than he knew what to do with, staying with him, even when he couldn’t remember whose hands they had belonged to.

There were many more moments of silence in Richie’s life that followed. But none made him feel as... _alive_ as that one with Eddie had.

Nothing _ever_ made him feel as alive as being with Eddie.

And after everything, they had moments of silence now, too.

In between many, many moments of utter chaos, of course.

And in all their quiet, lulls in conversation, watching dumb ‘80s films, cooking together in his kitchen or reading comics on his couch, Richie still searched for the right words. To...try and express everything that Eddie makes him feel.

But he’s not Shakespeare. Probably never will be. He can’t write love haikus about January embers or love songs to rival the greats or ramble declarations of everlasting devotion that would put Hugh Grant in every rom-com to shame. 

Instead - he writes comedy specials about the time he cannonballed into a creek at summer-camp and ended up flashing the entirety of Derry’s Girl Scout Troop and made Wendy Lewis hurl from fright. 

Eddie always did like that story, though. He likes all the stories that Richie tells. He says as much, every time Richie runs his material past him.

_This_ material though. This...Eddie has never heard.

Heaving a sigh, Richie glances one last time, into the mirror, standing tall.

Who he is, _is_ Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier. And this, his new show, is his sonnet of sorts. His soliloquy. His ode to Edward Kaspbrak and their lives together. Even if he’d never know it. Even if the words fell short of truly encapsulating everything Richie felt for him. 

It’s a start.

 _  
“_ _So, I have this friend, Eddie. And let me tell ya, ladies and germs, he is something else. Speaking of germs, he fucking hates ‘em…”_

This is Richie’s ‘braver than you think’ moment.

And that...that would have to do.

He exits the dressing room, fidgeting with the sleeve on his jacket and making his way over to the side of the stage.

_Okay Tozier, you got this. You can do this. Just go out there and_ —

“Rich! Richie, wait!” 

Richie frowns, turning to his right just before Eddie practically barrels into him. 

“Whoa, Eds, easy!” he exclaims, catching him around the elbows, steadying them both as they begin to topple dangerously.

“Shit sorry,” Eddie gasps, clutching Richie’s arms, a weird energy coming off him as he continues frantically, “Don’t go on stage yet. I-I need you to know something.” 

Richie raises an eyebrow.

“Is this where you tell me that you’ve killed Maryanne? ‘Cause I told you, I don’t really care about that Pepsi commer—”

“Richie, I have done thy mother.” 

Richie blinks, hearing a record-scratch echo inside his head.

“Uh...what?” 

Eddie flounders for a second, taking a shaky breath.

Richie blinks at him, trying not to panic at where this could be going.

_I’m leaving. I’m going back to New York. To Myra. I just wanted you to know. Have a good—_

“It’s a—it’s a quote from Titus Andronicus,” Eddie interjects Richie impending panic attack, “sorry, I’m nervous. I...I’m trying to do what you do and joke my way into something. You said once that we can’t all be Shakespeare. And—”

Richie suppresses a gasp, not quite believing that Eddie would bring that up, now of all times, mere moments after he had just been thinking of it. Every so often, he can’t help but think they have some sort of psychic link. You know, if he believed in that Professor X mumbo-jumbo. 

  
Eddie’s big, bright, bush-baby eyes meet his, something that Richie couldn’t place gleaming in them.

  
“And I’m really sorry that my last words to you—or what _I thought_ were gonna be my last words anyway—were 'I fucked your mother.' They...they should’ve been something else. Something I don’t want to wait until I die again to say anymore…”

He reaches up and places his hand on Richie’s cheek in something akin to a caress. 

Richie’s heart seizes in his chest as he fights the urge to nuzzle it.

A little line forms between Eddie’s eyebrows.

  
"Did you...did you mean it when you said you’ve never been in love? Because I have. Once. In my whole life. With one person. I—fuck it, sorry, I’ve come this far, I gotta tell you, please don’t hate me, I couldn't bear it. I can move out of the apartment building, I can go back to just being on the group chat and not talk to you directly in case it's awkward but just—please don't hate me, Rich.”

_Fuck. No. No, no, no. He’s...he’s actually gonna tell me he’s realised he’s actually still in love with his ex-wife or something and_ — _fuck, even if he is, I could never hate him. Never. I fucking_ —

He opens his mouth, thinking he should probably start verbalising all this shit before Eddie runs for the hills, but before he can, Eddie’s hands tighten around his forearms as he gasps out:

“Richie, I...I've been in love with you since I was twelve years old.” 

Oh.

_  
Oh._

_Holy shit._

“You—you drove me fuckin' crazy with your mom jokes and gross hygiene—but all I wanted to do was kiss you. All the fucking time,” Eddie is continuing at his usual roadrunner-pace, seemingly unaware of Richie’s complete and utter mental breakdown.

“I...I would climb into that deathtrap of a hammock just to feel your hand on my ankle, your knee brush against mine. I'd deliberately rant nonsense at you just to get you to notice me—and—I still do, Richie. These last two years, moving across the country, living in your apartment building, cooking in your kitchen, watching dumb TV together and falling asleep on your couch despite the fact I live one floor away,” he smiles, almost shyly as if thinking of those moments. 

“And...and being there for you when you came out and helping you work-shop and Jesus, everything you've done for me, helping through my divorce, helping me move, all of it and everything in between has only made me realise how much I still feel... _everything_ for you. All the childish stuff from back then and more...adult stuff from now. And god,” he winces adorably, “I know how that sounds, don't even think about making the jo—" 

“‘I've been in love with you since I was twelve years old' was supposed to be my line, jackass.” 

It is...not exactly what Richie intended to say as his giant, thirty-years-in-the-making-love-confession, but fuck. Again, he’s no Shakespeare and his brain had started short-circuiting about one-third of the way through that proclamation because holy fucking shit…

Edward Francis Kaspbrak is _in love with him_. 

Him. Richard Wentworth Tozier. Trashmouth.

_Holy fucking shit._

And suddenly, or maybe not that sudden at all really, the words, at least some of them, came to Richie, from where they had lain deep in the depths of his heart for the last thirty years.

“You’re un-fucking-real, Eddie Kaspbrak,” he croaks, tone unbelievably fond, “I...I’ve been in love with you since before I really understood what that meant. Back when the only way I could express it was by carving our initials into the Kissing Bridge. You, with your stupid fannypack and germophobia and tight, short-shorts that drove thirteen-year-old-me around the twist. I never forgot you, either. Not really. And now I finally know why my heart would race whenever I saw inhalers or digital watches. I was really worried for awhile that I had some deep-seated kinks, but turns out that they just reminded me of you. Eddie Spaghetti. Eds. My first crush. My only crush that turned into my first and only love.” 

He lets out a stuttered breath that felt like it had been held for three decades, eyes shining brightly.

“These...these last two years have been...have been like someone else’s life. After years of being alone, of—of missing someone I couldn’t fully remember, I finally... _we finally_ —”

To his horror, a small sob escapes Richie then, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. 

_Fuck! Keep it together, Tozier._

Eddie reaches up, gently slipping a thumb under the glasses to brush the tear away.

Richie’s eyes close at the contact, a small smile gracing his lips.

"The Kissing Bridge?" Eddie whispers, awe-struck.

Richie nods, his eyes still closed as Eddie's thumb brushes away another tear.

"I carved 'R+E' into the post that summer with my dad's pocket-knife,” he admits, seeing his gangly, awkward self glancing frantically around him before etching the truth in the only way he could, fresh in his mind as if it was yesterday, “I was always terrified that you'd see it and—"

"I _did_ see it, Rich. I rode my bike past every day, but...I never let myself hope that…”

_God, we’re idiots._

Eddie takes a shaky breath.

Richie opens his eyes at the sound, knowing he probably looks like a disgusting mess, but beaming nonetheless.

“You gonna knock my glasses off like you did back in the hammock, Eds? ‘Cause I gotta admit something else, man, that always got me—”

Eddie’s lips against his swallow the rest of his sentence.

Richie gasps into Eddie’s mouth as he’s pulled down while Eddie pushes up, meeting in the middle, kissing him as if it would be the last thing he’d ever do.

A surge of what feels like a million separate emotions floods Richie’s system in the best, if a little staggering, sensory overload, kind of way. Elation, surprise, relief, anguish,desperation, yearning and _love_ , so, so much love, that it weakens his knees. He feels as if this is Eddie’s new language for him to decipher, to decode and learn, their lips meeting and writing their own story together. 

Richie buries one hand in Eddie’s hair, the other clutching his hip and tugging him closer, their bodies brushing against each other that has him almost buckling. Never, not in his entire forty-two years old life, has anyone kissed him like this - has made him kiss back like this, with his entire mind, body and fuck, soul, filling the seconds with his side of the conversation, his lips conjuring the unspoken words decades in the making.

In the end, he never needed to be Shakespeare. 

He just has to be Richie Tozier. 

Eddie lets out a groan that causes a bolt of arousal to shoot through Richie as he sucks on his bottom lip, nipping at it gently.

Eddie opens his mouth, deepening the kiss, their tongues brushing before the need for oxygen forces them to part.

"Eds!” Richie exclaims breathlessly, resting their foreheads together, his mind simultaneously, blissfully numb and firing synapses in the millions, “You can't just...you can't just proclaim your love and kiss me, making twelve-year-old me’s dream come true right before I go on stage! You tryin' to kill me, man? You want me to blow chunks all over the micro-"

Eddie cuts him off with another peck, tongue tracing the seam of his bottom lip. 

Richie hums into the kiss, arm slipping around his waist and pulling their chests tightly together, practically lifting Eddie off the ground.

God, he’s always wanted to hold Eddie like this. There was just something about their height difference that always got him going - they slot together perfectly, the space between their bodies perfectly-Eddie-sized, as if he was always meant to be there. Right beside him.

_Jesus. You sappy fuck._

“Wait, fuck, Eds,” he pulls back slightly, pained at not being able to immediately ruck up the nearest wall, “You can't give me a boner, either. I mean, I would like to make up for all the ones I didn't get to have in Derry High but my publicist may actually murder me if I go on stage with a semi."

They break out in laughter at that, Eddie resting his head on Richie’s shoulder and letting his eyes slip closed.

“Seriously, man,” Richie continues, hands squeezing his waist, still completely in awe, “I thought you were a risk analyst? You have any idea how risky it is to—”

  
“You remembered what I do.” 

The pleased smile on Eddie’s face warms Richie from head to toe. Instead of telling him this though, he pulls a face.

“Of course I did. I remember everything about you, Eddie. Now that I’m allowed.” 

He reaches up to pat his cheek, much gentler than he did down in the sewers and thought about everything that he had catalogued about Eddie Kaspbrak both in childhood and the last two years since their reunion. The way his nose scrunches up whenever he smells lavender (a favourite scent of Myra’s that she would overindulge in at any given moment and give Eddie a headache.) As a kid, the way his eyes would light up whenever the ice cream truck would play that dumb song because he knew he’d be able to get a treat that his mother would never know about. 

How when he has a bad day at work, he trudges up to Richie’s apartment, all heavy-limbed and slow, with the excuse of making Richie dinner because _“you’re a fuckin’ barbarian, Tozier. Someone needs to show you that there are more food groups than the fatty, sugary shit,”_ but is actually there because he knows that Richie will cheer him up with terrible Gordon Ramsay impressions and even worse juggling skills. And Richie knows, later that night, when Eds is feeling better, when he’s truly relaxed, he’ll go into Richie’s spare room and dig out his sweatpants and oversized shirt that exposes his collarbones because he’s comfortable in Richie’s space, so much so, that it’s hard to know where Richie’s space ends and Eddie’s begins.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

“I’ll never forget anything about you ever again, Eds,” Richie tells him, sharing another secret close to his heart, “not for as long as I live.”

He knows that it sounds like a whole different confession.

And it is.

_I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Grow old with you. Annoy you until my last breath..._

As he looks down into those deep, brown eyes, he can tell that somehow, on some level, Eddie can hear him.

Before he can attempt to say anything aloud, Eddie’s eyes are darting away and widening.

  
“Shit. Isn’t that your stage manager?” 

Richie, still a little pleasantly punch-drunk, slowly turns towards the stage where in the opposite wing a familiar man is waving furiously at them.

_Shit, Luke is gonna have an aneurysm._

“Fuck, yeah. I uh...I probably should have been on stage like five minutes ago,” he shrugs, pulling out the fancy, cloth handkerchief that Bev stuffed in his pocket and dabbing his face.

He winces down at the cloth when he pulls it away from his face, it marred with a thin layer of foundation.

"Shit, I can't believe these words are about to leave my mouth but...my make-up is probably kinda fucked, huh? Sandra is gonna dig me up and murder me again when Luke slits my throat after the show." 

Eddie blanches, hand reaching up to brush against Richie’s face gently, inspecting it for any obvious streak marks. Richie knows he’ll catch hell for that comment later, but with Eddie’s skin against his, he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed yet.

As Eddie’s thumb brushes feather-light over his jaw, he winces, “Shit! Rich, sorry I-I shouldn’t have sprung all this on you right before—”

Richie cuts him off with a chaste kiss that is more a pressing of their smiles, but still has his heart soaring.

“You kiddin’ Eds?” he asks, his tone tinged with awe as they lock eyes, “This is the best ‘break a leg’ I’ve ever gotten. I’m gonna give them the show of a lifetime because I feel fuckin' invincible right now, he beamed, feeling a surge of adrenaline shoot through him, “like, do we have any other space aliens that need murdering? 'Cause I'm one-hundred percent down.” 

Eddie shakes his head, giving him a gentle shove but looking far too amused for it to really make an impact.

"Let's hope not. I don't see any baseball bats around here and I think you're outta catchphrases. Go make people laugh and then we'll talk about catching another predator or something." 

Richie smirks.

"God, you're hot when you talk about our childhood trauma."

Eddie rolls his eyes in the exact way they did as kids.

"And you're hot in that suit. Remind me to get Bev an extra birthday present this year."

_What the fuck?_

A deep heat spreads across Richie’s entire body, up his neck and to his cheeks..

Eddie calling him handsome was one thing. One phenomenal, amazing thing. But Eddie calling him hot?

Holy shit. He’s about to spontaneously combust.

"Shit, r-really?” he gapes, hating how breathless he sounds, “Eds, you can't say that shit to me, dude—”

Eddie pecks his lips before giving him another gentle shove.

“Go, before Luke adds me to his kill-list too. We’ll...we’ll talk more later.”

Richie raises an eyebrow, aiming for smug but knowing he misses the mark by a mile.

“I’m hoping we’ll do more than that, Eddie. I've been fantasizing about holding your hand and goin' steady with you for like, thirty years now." 

And much more.

  
So, so much more.

  
Sitting in bed playing Candy Crush on his phone while Eds reads. Lying on the couch with his head in Eddie’s lap as they try not to fall asleep. Running his fingers through Eddie’s hair after a long day at work. Lazy morning kisses that turn into something more—

Eddie snorts, spitting him out of his embarrassingly soft daydream, 

  
“Well, in that case, how about if you give them,” he points at the stage, “a good show, I’ll give you a _better one_ when we get home.” 

Richie’s mouth drops open, any possible sounds dying in his throat.

A flurry of images of just what kind of show Eds could give him floods his brain, short-circuiting it like water dousing a server. An Eddie strip-tease. An Eddie that has a whole other way of sharing food with him. An Eddie licking his way down Richie’s—

_Nope! No. Stop it. Deflect, deflect Tozier before Little Richie makes his presence very known and you get done for indecent exposure._

"So what like, takin' off our shirts and kissin' while we arm-wrestle?"

He’s far too winded to sound truly teasing, but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances.

“Something like that," Eddie deadpans but with his eyes full of promise as he shoves him, "Go! I’ll be here when you get back.”

Richie smiles softly, walking backwards towards the stage, gaze drinking in the absolute vision that is Edward Kaspbrak, hair mussed, clothes rumpled, his lips freshly kissed. 

An old quote tumbles from his mouth almost unbeknownst himself.

“I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, I love you.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes again, but his reddened cheeks and misty eyes give him away.

“You’re a giant nerd, you know that right?” 

He is.

But Eddie is too.

_‘Richie, I have done thy mother’ proves it._

  
He winks.

  
“Takes one to know one, Willy Shakes. Titus Andronicus? Colour me impressed.” 

His time on the stage, despite it being a stage like any other, feels momentous. Unlike anything he has ever felt before. But it isn’t just because of the roar of the crowd, or how he hits every beat of comedic timing perfectly, the punchlines landing time and time again and getting laughs more raucous than any in his career. No. What makes it feel so ethereal, so monumental, so profound, is the knowledge that just off stage, barely fifteen feet to his left, watching from the wings, stands the love of his life. 

Eddie Kaspbrak.

The bravest man Richie Tozier has ever known.

He took a risk that Richie couldn’t. And it paid off. 

Because some risks do. 

And who would know that better than a risk analyst? 

_Huh_ , Richie thinks to himself as he pauses before his next joke, eyes trailing over to catch Eddie’s, _I think I might owe the profession an apology._

He takes a deep breath, turning back to the crowd, small smile on his face.

“So, I have this...friend, Eddie. And let me tell ya, ladies and germs, he is something else…”

* * *

Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you thought, if you can :) The epilogue will be up soon!   
  


[More Reddie stuff here.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/works?fandom_id=134900) Come yell at me about these Losers [on Tumblr](http://octoberobserver.tumblr.com) if that’s your thing.


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